Page 13 of His Illegitimate Duchess

“A ny invitations?” was the first thing out of Catherine Williams's mouth every morning at breakfast since the day Lizzie had made her debut.

At first, Lizzie would exchange glances with Mary or Jane and shake her head, smiling at her mother's impatience. But once a fortnight had passed, it stopped being funny.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Mrs. Barlow told Miss Catherine as they all sat in the kitchen one night. “Just yesterday, Miss Lizzie went for a walk with Lady Isabella and that good-looking husband of hers. How many of these outings is she supposed to go on?”

Lizzie immediately looked over at Mary, who stopped washing the dish she was holding and said, “Ma, I’ll tell Dad that you peek at other men from the window.”

“I only look out of curiosity,” Mrs. Barlow said primly. “Besides, you know my opinion on good-looking men.”

Both girls knew very well that Mrs. Barlow disliked good-looking men and believed that they never belonged to one woman alone. E ven if he doesn’t stray, other women will stare at him wherever he goes, she’d say whenever the topic came up, much to Mary’s amusement.

“Doesn’t Pa ever get offended that you keep calling him ugly?” Mary asked as she sat back down at the table with the other women.

“Mind your mouth, Mary. I asked Madam a question, not you.”

“I’m afraid there are many more events and balls Elizabeth needs to be invited to, in order to meet the right people and be seen by them,” Catherine said, ignoring the effortless repartee between mother and daughter.

“The right men, you mean?” Lizzie added, using insolence to hide the jealousy and shame she felt.

Aunt Isolde had used every opportunity to kindly point out that Lizzie wasn’t getting as many invitations as Charlotte had last year.

It had caused Elizabeth to foolishly wish Charlotte weren't away at her husband's estate in Sussex, because that would mean at least one dinner invitation she could count on.

“Not only men, Elizabeth. Lady Fairchild returning your visit was very good. It means you will likely be invited to any balls her family may give.”

“Is she the handsome blonde?” Jane asked.

“No,” Miss Williams replied, “That’s Miss Woodhouse. Lady Fairchild is the thin, tall one.”

“The poor thing looks like a strong wind could knock her over,” Jane said. “She needs to eat more.”

“I’m sure she eats enough,” Lizzie frowned, not liking how they were talking about her friend.

I consider them both friends, she realised with a start.

“You should ask her for dinner. I’ll prepare a special meal for her, I’ll even make Shrewsbury cake,” Mrs. Barlow added helpfully.

Lizzie ran her fingertips over the tabletop, feeling all the grooves and knife marks, the sensation relaxing her enough to give up arguing.

“What a lovely idea.”

*

“I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” she moaned to Lady Burnham over tea a week later. “So few of my visits are being returned, and I’m not getting many invitations.”

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, my dear, I don’t know why that is always your first assumption,” Lady Burnham chided her protegee gently. “It takes time for things to fall into place, that’s all.”

“Well, I hope you’re right. I’d hate to let Nicholas down, after all the effort and money he’s poured into this endeavour.”

“Let’s not discuss the financial side of it. I’m sure His Grace is well aware that not everything is in your hands,” Lady Burnham said.

“I know it’s untoward to discuss money; however, I have a matter regarding means and etiquette I need your advice on.”

“I’m listening,” Lady Burnham set her teacup down and folded her hands in her lap.

“A young lady I’ve come to consider a friend is clearly less fortunate than I am.”

“What makes you say that? Has she complained to you?”

Elizabeth quickly shook her head. “Nothing like that. I’ve just noticed things.”

“Such as?”

“Her attire and her behaviour. She will avoid attending events where a ticket is required, and the like.”

“How close are you two?”

“I’ve called on her several times, both alone and with a mutual friend, and she has always returned my visits.

I feel at ease with her, we can talk about many different things, and she never gossips.

Instead, we discuss our thoughts and feelings about things.

” Elizabeth stopped talking and looked embarrassed.

Lady Burnham remained silent, clearly waiting for Elizabeth to voice her dilemma.

“God has blessed me with so much, and I’d like to share some of it with her in a way that will not be obvious or make her feel ashamed of her circumstances.

I do not wish to hurt her feelings by assuming she needs help, but on the other hand, I do not wish to be taken advantage of in case my judgment of her character turns out to be incorrect. ”

“I see. Let me consider the issue for a moment.”

Lizzie held her breath as Lady Burnham contemplated the matter.

“I can only speak from personal inclination and experience, so please do not forget that as you consider whether to heed my advice. In my opinion, it is paramount to conceal that you are intentionally helping this person. That will help to avoid hurting her and protect you from being taken advantage of. The key is to make every offer you extend seem as something incidental.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“You mentioned attending events that require purchasing a ticket. Instead of openly inviting this friend and offering to pay for her ticket, you can pretend you yourself were gifted tickets, and say that you need someone to accompany you. If you don’t think you can pretend in person, you can always ask via letter. ”

“That is so clever!”

Elizabeth beamed, and Lady Burnham smiled as well.

“Don’t be so surprised, my dear.”

*

The following evening, Elizabeth attended the Opera with her aunt Isolde.

Lady Burnham had gone over the etiquette of the evening with her and had even explained the plot of The Marriage of Figaro in great detail.

Elizabeth thanked God for that because it turned out that, even if it had been sung in English, her nerves would not have allowed her to follow along.

At first, when she entered her brother’s box, she felt safe and cocooned by the thick crimson carpet silencing her steps, and the brocade of the same colour covering the seats.

But when she stepped closer to the edge of the box and looked down into the vastness of the auditorium before her, Lizzie felt lightheaded upon seeing the rows and rows of boxes held up by fluted, gilt pillars.

When she could no longer bear it, she looked up and was met by a ceiling that was painted to resemble the sky.

How wondrous, she mused, but when Isolde delicately cleared her throat, Lizzie returned her eyes to the stage, which was framed in rich crimson drapes with gold borders which had cords and tassels that were gold as well.

The audience seemed to be following a similar theme: shiny and expensive. Some of the jewels reflected the light of the enormous lustre so strongly that the ladies looked like they were wearing tiny lights as ornaments.

Elizabeth felt like they were all staring at her. Thus, all of her faculties were working on keeping her back ramrod straight, her chin held high, her head turned to the stage, and her hands neatly and calmly folded in her lap.

She hoped to use the intermission to secretly observe how these people interacted with each other, for she had all but lost hope that she’d ever be one of them.

Oh, how she missed her old home on Church Street!

She used to love the afternoons in the kitchen when the continuously cross neighbourhood butcher, Mister Windham, would stop by to chat with Mister Ed.

He’d reluctantly sit down only to end up staying for more than an hour, telling them the latest news from the city, or regaling them with funny anecdotes about his customers, all the while finding fault with everything and everyone on his route.

By the time he left, they’d all be just a bit livelier than they had been before his visit.

In those days, while her mother customarily rested upstairs with a headache, Elizabeth, when home, had spent her time downstairs, in the kitchen, where the heart of the house was beating.

The place where Jane and Mrs. Barlow and other neighbour women talked in hushed tones about births and deaths, betrayals, debt, violent husbands, abandoned wives, and sick children.

And then, in the evenings, she and Ma would sit by the fire with the Barlows and someone would read from the papers, or one of Thomas’s letters…

A knock on the door of their box saved her from further musing on her loneliness. A woman who Elizabeth guessed to be Aunt Isolde’s peer came in with the airs of someone being coerced to descend below her station in life.

“Good evening, Lady Isolde,” the newcomer said as her aunt shot up to her feet, Elizabeth instinctively mirroring the movement.

“Lady Arabella,” her aunt sounded breathless as she curtsied. “Good evening.”

“If you would be so good as to join me in my box for Acts III and IV? Mother would like a word with your charge.”

“You mean? The m-” Isolde spluttered, which Elizabeth would have enjoyed very much had it not been for the sinking feeling in her stomach that alerted her to some kind of peril.

“Yes, Mother sent me to fetch you at once, so if you would please join me?” The unknown lady was getting impatient, so Isolde complied at once, leaving Elizabeth alone and confused, still on her feet.

She didn’t even have time to process that her aunt hadn’t introduced her to the other woman before the door opened, and a tiny, white-haired woman entered the box.

“Good evening,” Elizabeth made a low curtsy and received a haughty nod for her trouble.

“Good evening, Miss Hawkins,” the woman said in a raspy voice. “You may call me Lady Georgiana.”