Before the Season Ends Read online

  “The Regent! Shall I meet him?” She met her sister’s gaze with mock horror, and Alberta managed a wan smile. George, Prince of Wales, had been appointed regent two years prior due to a protracted illness of the king. He was recklessly extravagant, always in debt, and worse, rumoured to be something of a libertine.

  “I hardly think so,” answered her mama. “Your aunt is not the social dignitary she once was, and she’s getting on in years. Remember she is Papa’s elder sister.”

  “Of course our illustrious Regent prefers older women,” Mr. Forsythe commented snidely. He was referring to a few well-known liaisons the prince was known to have had. “Even if Princess Caroline is peculiar, as they say,” he inflected strongly, “I cannot respect a monarch who cheats!”

  “Few of our monarchs have been known for their virtue, Papa.” Ariana loved to read, and knew much regarding the history of the crown. But Papa always compared the Regent to his father, George III, who was a stellar example of fidelity, economy, and, until his illness, a most sound-thinking man.

  Since his sentiments regarding the Regent were not new to anyone in the room, Mrs. Forsythe continued, “I am sure your aunt will properly care for you, my dear, or we should not give leave for you to go, no matter—” she stopped, not wishing to name the rector. “No matter what!” She nodded brightly to Ariana.

  Alberta blew her nose lightly into an embroidered handkerchief, and Ariana turned troubled eyes to her. “ ’Berta, I am sorry you are not going. Pray, do not be out of countenance with me.”

  Her sister shook her head. “I shan’t. Mama and Papa are right. Mr. Norledge would hate it dreadfully were I to go. It must be God’s will for you.” Alberta’s mild tone and gentle look filled Ariana with gratitude for such a wonderful sister, and she gave her an impulsive hug that was returned with equal fervour.

  Alberta was definitely the saintliest member of the family. She could overcome her disappointments so easily!

  “But since you will be in my place,” Alberta said, her eyes twinkling (and proving how thoroughly she had accepted the situation), “you must make an enormous success and marry a dashing nobleman!” Eyes alight, the sisters giggled, but Mr. Forsythe clucked his tongue at them.

  “You will meet odd feathers of all colours in my sister’s company, but we trust you to entertain no serious feelings for anyone of her ilk.”

  “Papa, Ariana knows I was only making fun.”

  “Still,” he said, while a sleepy Lucy climbed up onto his lap and settled herself there, “many gels will set their caps at a man because of a fortune or how dashing he is. We expect wiser choices from you, Ariana. Never allow yourself to be drawn into the amusements of the season to the point that you neglect your spiritual offices.” He paused, giving Ariana what he hoped was an expression of confident approval. “Seek others of our faith—which I believe must be possible, for our Lord sent His angels even to Sodom for the sake of the upright living in its midst. Who knows but there may be upright ones among the upper class? Look at Wilberforce! There may be a Lot for you, my dear.”

  “Oh, Papa!” The idea of finding a Lot did not strike Ariana as pleasant in the least. There was a silence then, until Mrs. Forsythe stood, signaling to her daughter.

  “Let us examine your wardrobe, Ariana. You have suitable gowns for both morning and evening, and I daresay your riding habit is not yet outmoded. I warrant even Agatha can only be happy if you bring some of what you will need.”

  This little speech sent new energy into Lucy, whose eyes shot open. The family lovingly called her the “little coquette,” because she adored all manner of feminine attire, especially the fripperies which Mr. Forsythe had earlier referred to. She shot up off his lap and in a trice was following her sister and mother out of the room. Beatrice, too, scrambled after them.

  “Mama,” Ariana said thoughtfully, as they climbed the stairs, “I see no fault with any of my gowns save the gray kerseymere, which is fraying at the elbows; why should I not bring the rest? Perhaps Aunt will wish to update a few, but certainly that is more economical than bespeaking new things.”

  Mrs. Forsythe was thoughtful a moment. “I’m afraid Papa is right about your aunt—she is mindful of fashion to a fault.” She stopped, surveying her daughter, her lips pursed in thought. Then she smiled. “But no one can be eager to put forth so much that to make do just a little cannot be deemed satisfactory. Yes! We shall pack the lot!”

  Once inside Ariana’s chamber she stood humming to herself while she went through the gowns in the armoire. Pulling out a plum-coloured, bombazine day dress, she held it out for inspection. “I do think,” she said, “that it will please Agatha to shop for a young woman. Do not be surprised if she rejects more than half your wardrobe.”

  “May I have what she doesn’t fancy for Ariana?” asked Beatrice, quickly.

  “No.” Her mother gave her a quelling look. “Alberta can certainly make better use of Ariana’s cast-offs than you.”

  Lucy was watching, wide-eyed. “Did Aunt Bentley really have two husbands?”

  “Not at the same time,” chuckled Ariana. “But that does account for her fortune. Oh—I do fancy that gown!” Mrs. Forsythe had pulled forth a fetching afternoon dress in light gray figured silk with a small black leaf design, and trimmed with puffed gray crepe and jet beads. The skirt was flounced at the hem with black crepe and embroidered silk, and Ariana even had a matching pelisse of dark gray velvet lined with sarsnet. It was indeed a copy of a London fashion that their local seamstress had admirably copied from Ackermann’s, and so valued by its wearer that it was only worn on the most important of occasions.

  “May I wear it for the journey?”

  “For the third day’s journey when you shall be sure of arriving, yes.”

  “Third day!”

  “It could be done in two, but your aunt is particular on this matter, and insists too much travel is fatiguing for a lady, even a young one like yourself. She is paying your shot at the coaching inns, so we should do as she says. Of course Dory will be with you,” she added hurriedly, as Ariana’s eyes revealed alarm at the thought of spending two nights in strange roadside inns.

  Ariana was silent a moment. “Poor Aunt Bentley!” She was thinking of her widowhood. “How hard it must have been for her, to lose two husbands!”

  “She was a good wife,” said Mrs. Forsythe, “and indeed took it quite hard, both times.” She looked brightly at Ariana and exclaimed, “Well, my dear, in every cloud a silver lining. The Lord is using her for your advantage. A young lady can hardly be comfortable in fashionable society if she feels inferior in appearance.” She put down the clothing she had been holding and put her arms around her daughter. In a confidential tone she said, “I am very pleased for your sake that you will be going. There is nothing quite like a London season for a young lady. So many agreeable things to do and see! The balls! So much excitement! I believe our Lord is granting you this to some purpose, my love.”

  Then, as she led her daughter to sit on the bed, she added, “Do be on the lookout for that purpose. There is no doubt some good you can do there.”

  Ariana nodded, but her mother’s gaze was far away. She was lost in the memories of her own debut in society, more than twenty years earlier.

  “I remember my own come-out,” she started to say, with great affection, but was interrupted by Lucy.

  “Will Ariana find a husband in London, Mama?”

  Smiling at Ariana, she answered, “Only the Lord knows, my love. But she may, you know. She may.”

  Four

  One week later

  Mayfair, London

  Number 49 Hanover Square was posh and exclusive, which, being in Mayfair, was to be expected. Though Ariana had visited as a child with her family, she remembered nothing of the atmosphere of stolid wealth that pervaded the tree-lined street of Georgian brick homes, or the gleaming black iron railings which flanked doorways all the way down it, as far as one could see.

  The railings of hou
se number 49 fanned out toward the pavement in two graceful arcs. They were intricately designed and polished to a shine. Equally decorous black lamps sat elegantly above the railings on both sides of the door, and above the threshold, jutting out slightly over the steps, was an angelic sculptured awning.

  Two cherubic faces smiled benignly down from the sculpture, and Ariana stopped and smiled herself. She, provincial Ariana Forsythe from the country, was about to embark on a London season of the sort that she had never imagined would come her way.

  The journey to London by post chaise had indeed taken three days, including two stopovers at roadside inns. Mrs. Bentley had specified how to proceed right down to the littlest details, so that even Ariana’s meals at these places were largely according to her suggestions. Dory had often dozed off in the carriage and encouraged Ariana to do the same, but she was too excited to sleep and chose to read whenever the light allowed.

  Ariana had been forced to waken the maid upon their arrival, but true to form, Dory was instantly alert and bustled about seeing that Mrs. Bentley’s servants missed no luggage, and that Ariana was expected and welcomed. A groom had appeared from the mews, and took charge of the carriage, leading the horses around the house. At the front door, Dory whispered a hurried goodbye, giving her charge a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing down the servants’ entrance to the kitchens. Come morning, she would begin the journey back to Chesterton by herself. Ariana watched her go with a slight feeling of misgiving. Dory was her last connexion to home and family.

  Ariana was ushered in by Haines, the butler, who, though he looked the part of the stern master of the staff, seemed to be a soft-hearted pretender.

  “Your aunt will be pleased to learn you have safely arrived,” he said, watching her with a staid expression, the result of training and long habit. For he was, in fact, pleased to find that the long-awaited niece of his mistress was a pretty young miss.

  “Much obliged,” Ariana said, while he helped relieve her of her bonnet, gloves, and pelisse. But when he reached to take her reticule, she nodded that she wished to keep it with her. It held the all-important letter explaining why she, Ariana, had come and not Alberta, as well as a small token of thanks for her aunt. The housekeeper arrived, and she curtseyed to Ariana.

  “Mrs. Ruskin, at your service, ma’am. Welcome to London!”

  Ariana thanked her and explained that from the time they had entered the outreaches of the city, she had been all eyes.

  “Nothing like our busy city back in Chesterton, eh?” the housekeeper chuckled.

  “Not at all,” Ariana conceded. In fact, the strange sights and sounds—and smells—of busy London fascinated her. She had never seen such vendors, buildings, stalls, criers, carts of wares, or the manner of pedestrians and equipages as she had since they passed through Hampstead. Market day at home was crowded, of course, but nothing like this. Dory had been asleep when they entered the city, and Ariana was forced to keep her excitement to herself, even when the coach turned onto Fleet Street, a wide thoroughfare choked with traffic and well-dressed pedestrians.

  An astonishing number of inviting shops lined both sides of the street as far down as the eye could see. Men and women of high fashion were coming and going about their daily affairs and Ariana marveled at them and their fine clothing. The coach made but little headway for a time, stopping every few minutes due to the traffic, and she had time to look and admire to her heart’s content.

  Then, while they sat waiting for room to manoeuvre, she noticed a pair of street waifs begging from door to door, only to be turned away again and again. A person here or there would give a coin, but her heart broke at sight of the poor little things.

  One of them, a little girl with enormous brown eyes and raggedy hair, scrawny and unkempt, suddenly spied Ariana’s compassionate gaze and started toward the vehicle as if on cue with a hand outstretched. Ariana hurriedly felt for a coin in her reticule—she had a few pounds of her own as well as a small sum from Papa for pin money, and she eagerly desired to help this poor child. But a passing gentleman saw the child’s intent and stopped her with a cane, barring her path, and the little ragamuffin ran off. The gentleman tipped his hat and bowed, as though he had done Ariana a service. She looked away. She would not nod or acknowledge him; instead her heart felt heavy as the coach’s wheels began to turn, moving them on.

  After enduring more traffic, the carriage turned onto Oxford Street, a wider and less congested avenue, and they began to make headway. Finally they turned onto a smaller, quieter road. Ariana was admiring the rows of neat houses with their wrought-iron fences when the road widened into Hanover Square.

  And now, here she was, inside her aunt’s house. Mrs. Ruskin led her toward the staircase while Ariana’s large eyes sparkled with pleasure, surveying the welcoming interior of the hall. Above her head was an elegant chandelier dripping with a score of candles, and to her right, a colourful tapestry on the wall. A gilt-edged, decoratively framed mirror hung elegantly above a little japanned table against the wall to her left.

  “This way, my dear,” said the housekeeper, after they climbed the stairs, and she escorted Ariana into a well-appointed parlour.

  “Is there anything I can get you? Tea, perhaps?”

  “I’d be obliged, thank you,” she said, for in fact Ariana was hungry and thirsty. The housekeeper eyed her thoughtfully and added, “Perhaps a bite as well? A young lady must get an appetite from such a journey as you’ve had.”

  “That will be lovely, thank you.” Ariana reflected with relief that kind servants usually meant the master—or mistress—was also kind.

  She surveyed the light buff-yellow room, pleasantly illuminated with numerous wax candles, the good, expensive kind. Another rich chandelier was overhead, though unlit at present. There were two comfortable-looking sofas with embroidered flowers on them, a divan and two wing chairs, and a mound of hot coals in the hearth. An oval wooden table of a rich hue sat in the middle of the circle of furniture, and rested upon an oriental carpet. There were portraits on the wall of people dressed in old-fashioned, eighteenth-century styles, but still very pleasing to the eye.

  The effect of it all was so warm and pretty and inviting that Ariana thought surely her Aunt Bentley must be warm and inviting herself. Perhaps not pretty, since she was Papa’s elder sister, but warm and inviting would be very agreeable, indeed. She sat gingerly upon a sofa, placing her reticule lightly upon the table, careful not to disturb anything.

  Moments later, she heard voices in the hall. The door opened and there was a swift change in the atmosphere as Mrs. Bentley, with a servant behind her, entered the room. Thoughts of her relation being warm and inviting flew away. Ariana came to her feet and beheld the woman who was her aunt.

  Agatha Bentley was dressed richly in a heavy gown that reached the floor. It was adorned with sparkling gold-threaded embroidery at the wrists and hem. She had a shawl around her shoulders and tucked under her arms. She wore two very large jeweled rings on her hands, a multitude of heavy gold bracelets, and a jeweled headband. As if this wasn’t enough to enlarge Ariana’s expressive orbs, her relation’s eyes were sharp and cold and her skin was very white. There was nothing in her face to remind one of Mr. Forsythe, Ariana’s father; and unlike his sturdy features, hers were small and surprisingly delicate.

  The house felt suddenly unwelcoming despite the fact that the servant carried a china tea service on a tray, with biscuits and small cakes on little plates. She placed the tray carefully upon the table near Ariana. The china was pretty, with fluted edges, delicate—and breakable, Ariana thought, for some reason.

  Trying not to appear as if she were hungrily studying her niece, Mrs. Bentley smiled tremulously. It was not a warm smile, more like one the wearer hoped would be warm, but Ariana smiled in return and curtseyed. Her aunt felt infinite relief that the girl was attractive. All the finery she had in mind could not have hidden a pallid complexion or dumbness of expression. In fact, the girl had a calm,
intelligent demeanour, rich blonde hair, and a rosy complexion. Her face was finely featured, with a lovely, chiseled nose, smooth cheekbones, and, most striking of all, light bluish-brown eyes that sparkled prettily, though they held a look of what? Mild alarm?

  Perhaps she is peaked from traveling, thought Mrs. Bentley. She hoped it was not a permanent feature. She often found the best looking fruit invariably had the rottenest interiors and she supposed this applied to people as well. Would her handsome niece prove to be overly shy or inept at conversation? These faults were as fatal, in her social circle, as being ugly, or worse—poor! Aloud she said only, “So this is my niece! Welcome to my home,” with an arm motion instructing Ariana to take her seat.

  “You shouldn’t have risen, you know,” she added. “Ladies do not rise when company enters the room, unless it is royal company, of course.”

  Ariana nodded politely, and then said, “I am instructed to give you the best regards of my father and mother, and to say how very much obliged we are to you for sponsoring me.” Having relieved herself of this speech restored her confidence somewhat, and she even remembered to give her aunt the small aromatic pomander fastened to a silk ribbon that she and her mother had fashioned as a present.

  “For you,” she said, handing it to Mrs. Bentley. “It’s just a token, of course. Oh, and this letter, from Papa. Please read it now.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out the sealed missive, handing it to her aunt with the pomander. Ariana could not feel quite at ease until Mrs. Bentley read the explanation of why she was there instead of Alberta.