Page 60 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)
Rowena heaved herself into a more upright position.
“Now, what is making you sound so out of sorts? No ball to plan for, I imagine. What are you reading? Oh, this is pretty,” she said, taking the journal from Sophia’s hands.
“White satin… French bows and knots of silver. That sounds quite delightful. Shall you have one like it made up?”
“I cannot afford it,” Sophia said dejectedly.
“Not even with the additional allowance from the duke? He is very generous.”
“Oh yes, the duke is generous, but Richard is not. I do not like to speak ill of my brother, for he is an admirable man in every other respect, but he is a nip-farthing, Rowena. Even you must admit it. He insists I must not overspend my allowance, not even by the cost of a single ribbon, and how can anyone be sure to keep to a specific sum? One must have clothes, after all.”
“He is careful with money, it is true,” Rowena said with a little smile. “Being a man, he does not quite appreciate the benefits of a new gown or slippers.”
“Or diamond armlets,” Sophia said with another sigh. “Just imagine how glorious that would be. With every movement, I should glimmer and sparkle.”
She jumped up, held her arms in the correct position and executed a complete figure with all the steps, and then sighed again. “When, oh when will there be a ball? I cannot tell you, Rowena, how I long for a proper ball, but not when I have nothing to wear.”
“There will be no balls before Lady Day when your next allowance will arrive, but perhaps the seamstress might begin work a little early? She will know she will be paid, after all.”
“Richard will not permit it,” Sophia said dejectedly.
“We are never to buy anything for which we could not settle the bill immediately, if required. Nor are we allowed to borrow money, and we are never, ever to gamble to defray debts. Oh, it is hard! There is nothing like a new ball gown to lift the spirits.”
“Then you know the answer, Sophia,” Rowena said with a quick laugh. “You will just have to marry a vastly rich man who dotes on you so much that he gives you all his wealth to spend on ball gowns and diamond armlets.”
“ All his wealth? But then we should be destitute and how should I survive without any new gowns at all?”
Rowena laughed out loud at her dejected tone. “There is no pleasing you! What you must do, Sophia, is what I was obliged to do for many years, and rework your old gowns. You have some very pretty ones that could be refreshed with very little effort.”
It was a strange thing, but Richard had said precisely the same thing to her many, many times, and it had merely made her cross and long even harder for the new gown or gloves or fan.
When Rowena said it, however, it sounded eminently reasonable and she could not think of a single argument against it.
Richard himself came in just then, with his sketchbook under his arm, and Sophia had no wish to hear any more about his precious orangery. For months now, he had been drawing up plans for it, so that Rowena might grow oranges and lemons and who knows what exotic fruits, and Sophia was tired of it.
Leaving them to their discussion, she slipped away to her room, and flung open the doors of the two presses that housed all her ball gowns.
She had quite a collection now after eleven years of balls and she had bought at least two for each season.
Laying them carefully on the bed, she counted thirty-one.
Since each gown had danced its way through four or five balls apiece, that was…
too difficult a sum to work in her head.
She kept a notebook with every ball listed, and all her partners, and what they had danced, together with a few comments about the number of couples and the quality of the supper and any particularly memorable moments, so she could work it out from that.
After some concentrated effort with the notebook, she reached a final number — one hundred and forty-one.
That was the sum of her life so far, one hundred and forty-one balls, any number of dances and partners and not a single offer of marriage.
Even in the days of her highest bloom she had attracted no suitors, and now, at the advanced age of twenty-eight, it was unlikely that she ever would.
She was a confirmed spinster, and even three older sisters in the same pitiable state was no comfort.
What was wrong with them all, that no man wanted any of them?
She lifted up her favourite gown, her very first. Horribly outdated now, of course — such full skirts!
So much material in it, and even Richard had agreed that she must wear silk to a ball.
She pressed the fabric to her face, wondering if she would still catch the faint scent of the perfume she had worn on that unforgettable evening… No, it was gone.
With another sigh, she carried it to the window to examine more closely.
Such a beautiful silk, that flowed over her hands like cool water.
And so much of it… if it could be carefully unpicked, perhaps a new dress could be contrived?
And there would even be enough left over for full sleeves, if she should want them.
Gathering up the gown, she rushed off to find Lily.
The duchess was almost the same age as Sophia, and also came from a family at the lower edge of gentility, where finding the money for new gowns was a constant struggle.
Even since her marriage to the duke, she still dressed frugally, and was adept at fashioning new from old.
“Have you never had to do this before?” Lily said, taking the gown to the window to examine it closely. “Richard must have been very generous with you.”
“Not he!” Sophia said. “The trustees were generous, certainly, but as soon as Richard came of age, he leased Leahollow and marched us off to a poky little house in Norwich, and reduced our allowances.”
“Oh!” Lily said, wide-eyed. “But perhaps there were debts to be settled?”
“No, he is just horridly cheeseparing. It is not so bad for my sisters, for Charlotte is as tight-fisted as Richard, Augusta is happy so long as she has a riding habit to wear, and Maria cares nothing for clothes when there are books to be read. Mama was the only one who understood, but even she could not sway Richard. His mind was entirely closed to the idea that one cannot exist on only two or three gowns a year. It is just not possible, not if one is to be respectably turned out.”
Lily laughed. “Indeed, I cannot fault your logic, cousin, for my sisters and I suffered just as you do. Poor Papa! There were so many of us, and the boys had to be educated and mounted, so there was very little left over for unnecessary items like clothing. We were only allowed new gowns twice a year, spring and autumn, and then it was only one morning gown, one walking and one evening. We spent half our days unpicking and sewing anew.”
“How dreadful!”
“Oh, it was a challenge we all relished. Happily for me, my godmother descended on us when I was about to come out, and insisted I needed a veritable mountain of gowns. Papa grumbled about it, and we only persuaded him in the end by telling him that good quality clothes could be handed down for year after year, and serve for several of my sisters.”
“I imagine he did not grumble so much when you drew the duke’s eye,” Sophia said slyly.
“Oh, but he did! He was horrified, and I think he would have forbidden the match if Mama and my godmother had not pointed out all the advantages. And now Cordelia and Amabel have made very good matches, and John has his colours, in a far better regiment than he might have expected, and Henry is a midshipman. There is a living for Charles or Thomas, too, if they want to go into the church. The duke has been so kind to us… to all of us,” she added wistfully.
Sophia said nothing, for she found Lily’s story heartbreaking.
To be forced to marry a man old enough to be one’s grandfather!
Lily had been eighteen to the duke’s sixty-eight, and no matter how kind he had been and still was, for he was clearly fond of his young wife, it was indubitably a dreadfully unequal match.
As for the advantages, those all accrued to others — Lily’s brothers and sisters, and not to Lily herself, beyond the security of wealth and high standing in society.
But Lily never railed at her situation, except to say now and then that the grandeur and size of Staineybank felt oppressive to her. After her only child had died at the age of six, she had planned to leave it altogether and return to Cheshire, where her family lived, but here she still was.
Now she smiled, running slender fingers over the skirts of the ballgown. “This is a beautiful silk. It will make up afresh very well, you will see. We can look through the journals today, and talk to the seamstress tomorrow.”
The two spent a delightful afternoon in the duchess’s private sitting room, with journals lying open on every available surface, sipping tea and discussing fashions, for it was a subject of inexhaustible interest to both of them.
Dinner that evening was dominated as so often these days by discussion of the proposed orangery.
It was intended as a wedding gift to Rowena, who had admired the Duke of Camberley’s orangery at Marshfields, but at the present rate of progress the bride would be a matron with three or four children before it was finished.
Not a stone had yet been laid, and the exact location had not even been determined.