Page 10 of Lady for a Season (Regency Outsiders)

“I’m so sorry,”

murmured Maggie, hastening down the stairs to join them. Joseph held out her dark blue velvet cloak with a white fur trim and before Maggie knew it, they were in the town carriage outside, Maggie sitting uncomfortably close to the Duchess, Edward opposite her.

The carriage moved off and Maggie tried to catch Edward’s gaze, but he stared resolutely out of the window into the dark streets.

Was he angry with her? A tight ball of fear lodged in her stomach.

There was no real need for the carriage, for the Godwins were only two squares away.

Their daughter, Miss Belmont, was clearly to be the focus and purpose of the evening.

Having been recently presented at court, she was now out in society and what could be more advantageous than for their dinner invitation to be the first accepted by the Buckinghams, since the Duke was clearly the most eligible bachelor of the season to come?

As they arrived Maggie looked over Miss Belmont, who was a small, dark-haired young woman, with pale skin and wide brown eyes.

She gave an immaculate curtsey when introduced to Edward, but Maggie could not hear her, although her lips moved, so softly did she speak.

Would she suit Edward? A kind person would be good, but would such gentleness survive the Duchess?

Edward was trapped in endless courtesies, the bow over his hostess’ hand, the firm handshake with his host, the offering of an arm to Miss Belmont to take her into dinner, the tedious small talk first to the daughter and then the mother, who was all but simpering at him as though she were the debutante, not her daughter.

The dining room shone with candles and glass and silverware, the dishes, from jugged hare to pheasants, fillet of beef, mushrooms, roast lobsters and more, were completed with a dazzling array of sweets, from tiny colourful jellies to iced biscuits, apricot puffs and even lemon ices, although Edward could not have sworn to what he had eaten, nor to what it tasted like.

Although the ladies went through the motions of retiring, the men kept their port drinking to a minimum, evidently keen to ensure Edward spent as much time as possible with the daughter of the house.

In the drawing room an older woman made small talk with him, possibly Miss Belmont’s aunt, placed there to gather information on him and report back to the family on his manner and character.

The correct manners and words came from him as though he were only a puppet and all the while he was horribly aware of the never-ending scrutiny.

As for his mother and Maggie, he could smell their fear that he would slip up, that he would be exposed for what he was: the spare who had become duke, the lunatic released from his cell only to play a part.

From his hosts and their friends, he could feel the greedy desire to secure him.

Their smugness at having already got one up on the rest of the ton by having him attend their dinner as his first social outing.

It would allow them to boast, to imply there might already be some kind of understanding between the families, that it was only a matter of time…

their daughter Miss Belmont had been officially presented, the Duke was bound to… and yet, their covetousness making them all too willing to forget to think, to ask questions.

Did it not concern them that nothing had been heard of him for years? Did they not think it odd that he had not been at either the funeral of his father nor that of his brother? Their questions, when they came, were so weak, so easily brushed aside, that he almost wanted to tell them the truth.

He only murmured something about travel, a distant uncle, an interest in astronomy and they were nodding at once, of course, of course, so good for a young man to travel and have interests before settling down, this last with over-joyful smiles, as though this were an engagement party and not merely the prelude to the social season proper.

He both despised and pitied them all, so caught up in their foolish social rules that they could not see what he was, a broken man, a man who might fool them all but only for so long before the cracks showed, before they caught a glimpse of what was underneath and then? Perhaps they too would lock him away.

Perhaps, he thought, he should be afraid of them.

But the thought of being taken back to Ivy Cottage, where he could live quietly with Maggie, as he had done before… at this moment he would gladly exchange this life for that one.

He could even endure Doctor Morrison if he could have Maggie by his side.

What frightened him tonight was Maggie.

He could barely take his eyes off her.

She had been beautifully dressed and coiffured and as far as he could tell she was managing to make her way through the evening without fault, but her eyes frequently sought his and there was fear in them.

He wondered whether she would give up after this evening, whether she would refuse to keep going with this charade and leave him to manage by himself.

And he could not do it, he admitted to himself.

He was coping only because she was there, where he could see her, giving him courage to get through this evening, this scrutiny, this bid for his right to remain in the world and not be locked away again.

The idea of her leaving, of being frightened away….

His heart beat faster at the thought, a wave of dizziness swept over him.

“Edward?”

She was at his side, one hand resting on his for just a moment.

“I feel dizzy,’ he said in a low voice, conscious of the need not to be overheard.

Her voice lowered to a murmur. “Breathe,”

she said. “Breathe, Edward. All is well. I am here with you.”

He wanted to hold her hand but that would be noticed, instead he looked into her eyes and his shoulders relaxed under her warm gaze. He thought back to her hand on his naked chest in the nights after bad dreams, the touch of her skin against his, how it had always soothed him, and tried to breathe more slowly.

“What would I do without you?”

he asked after a few moments, and she only shook her head.

“You do not have to think of that. I will always be here if you need me.”

His racing heart slowed at her confidence, her certainty. “You are not frightened away?”

“Not if you are with me.”

He could not resist it; he touched her hand again. “Thank you,”

he murmured.

“Go,”

she said smiling. “You are supposed to be making conversation.”

In the carriage on the way home the Duchess nodded, pleased. “It went well,”

she said. “Next week will be the Halesworth ball. You must both ride or walk daily in Rotten Row,”

she added. “Now that you are beginning to make acquaintances it is important to be seen.”

Edward wondered whether she had even noticed his moment of panic, or whether she had simply overlooked it while courting the Godwins. Soon he must face the next social hurdle, their first ball.

Despite her fears, Maggie found the Halesworth ballroom enchanting. A vast room, with a gleaming wooden floor reflecting the light of hundreds of candles. Looking glasses everywhere, vases of ornate flower arrangements everywhere in vivid autumn shades of orange and yellow, with red berries here and there. In an adjoining room, every kind of drink and delicacy were laid out, from shining ices to tiny piled-up iced biscuits in a myriad of colours. And jellies, cakes, puddings, each exquisitely presented on delicate stands. Maggie found a glass of champagne pressed into her hand and was presented with a pretty paper fan, on which were written the planned order of dances for the evening, along with space to add the names of her dance partners, should she claim some, to be included with the aid of a delicate silver pencil.

“May I claim the first dance?”

Maggie turned to find a young man bowing before her.

“I – yes, of course,”

she stammered, trying to hold both the pen and the glass of champagne while opening the fan.

“Allow me,”

he said, and took the fan and the pen, added his name to it with a flourish, bowed again and left her standing flustered.

She put down her champagne on a side table, unfolded the fan and examined the elaborate handwriting. Bamber, was it? She had never heard of him and what an odd first name, unless it was his surname?

“May I request the second dance?”

And so it went on. Maggie could barely move from her spot, nor seek any refuge or rest, as one man after another bowed and wrote their names onto her fan. At last she moved until she was entirely hidden by a vast floral display and gaped at the fan in disbelief. Name after name, most of them surnames, she supposed, as they did not sound like Christian names at all.

“You hiding as well?”

Maggie realised she was standing next to a tall young woman with fair hair who was leaning back against the wall in a bored attitude. Unlike most of the women in the room, she had short hair, brushed forwards and curled at the front. Maggie hastily tried to think of the appropriate thing to say.

“I just needed a moment to collect myself…”

“Deadly dull, isn’t it? And we haven’t even started dancing yet, then there’ll be small talk to make.”

“I’m sorry,”

Maggie murmured, “I don’t know your name. I am –”

“Margaret Seton, distant cousin to the Duchess of Buckingham, who’s taken you in and is currently busy marrying off the Duke of Buckingham. He’s the catch of the season, for sure. Must be helping your chances along too?”

“I –”

“I’m Lady Honora.”

“Lady Honora?”

Maggie thought back to the Duchess’ list and wondered if this was the woman she had mentioned. What was it she had said about her?

“Lady Honora Fortescue, daughter of Lord and Lady Halesworth, heiress to the Fortescue Hall and estate,”

said the woman. “If you want the whole of it. Lady Honora will do.”

“Are you – are you looking forward to the dancing?”

stumbled Maggie, appalled to discover that she was speaking with the host’s daughter and mindful of all the lessons in polite conversation she had received. This one was not going quite as she had expected.

“Oh, don’t feel the need to prattle to me,”

said Lady Honora, examining her fan. “There’s no need. Tiring enough being on the marriage mart and making small talk with the men without having to try and be polite to other ladies as well. Who’s on yours?

“My?”

“Fan.”

Maggie mutely held it out.

“Ah, Bambers for the first, is it? He’s all right. Bit of a drip but means well. Once helped me climb through a window when my Pa was coming and wouldn’t have been best pleased to see me standing around outside with the menfolk when I was supposed to be dancing inside. Lord Seymour, he’s a bore. Earl of Radcliffe, make sure he keeps his hands to himself, he’s a rake and doesn’t care who knows it. Mowbray – he’s going to be a count one day, not a bad sort, might be worth a try I suppose. Pembroke’s a bit of a dish, afraid you don’t stand a chance, he’ll get to choose the pick of the bunch this year. Lymington. Decent. Montgomery.”

She shrugged. “Passable. Only a second son, no title, but they’ve got pots of money, so you’d hardly go short. Mowatt. One to keep an eye on, he’s due to inherit a pretty big pile and become a viscount as soon as his uncle Lord Barrington dies, which can’t be long now. He’s an invalid, always at the seaside in Margate with Mowatt dancing attendance on him.”

She sighed and handed back the fan. “First half are the usual crew. How’s His Grace, is he a good one or shouldn’t I bother? His brother wasn’t worth the trouble, even if he was going to be a duke. Bit of a bore and crass with it. Sorry for your loss, by the way,”

she added as an afterthought. “My condolences and all that sort of thing.”

Maggie found herself liking the woman, even though she was not at all what she had been expecting. “His Grace is a good man,”

she said, unsure of what else to say about Edward.

“Looks a bit more refined than his father and brother. Not your hunting fishing shooting type?”

“He rides,”

said Maggie tentatively. “But he prefers books, and he is looking forward to attending the theatre.”

“Oh, that sort,”

said the girl. “Not my type, but no harm done. I should think Buckingham will have his choice this season, even Pembroke won’t be able to outdo him. He’s only a viscount, though he is rich as Croesus. But girls love a duke, don’t they? Fall over themselves for the chance of being a Duchess and outranking everyone for the rest of their lives. Scarcity value, I expect. As for the mamas, they’ll be chasing him down like hounds to a fox. Hope he’s got a strong constitution; he’s going to need it. Anyway, we’d better get started. The first dance is coming up and Bambers is looking about for you, poor chap. You’d better go and rescue him. I’m with Mowatt. I’ll check on how that uncle of his is doing.”

And she was gone, striding rather than gliding across the floor, tapping sharply with her fan on the arm of a young man with brown hair, who turned and bowed to her, then led her to the dance floor, where couples were forming up into a set.

Another man was making his way towards Maggie when she heard a welcome voice.

“I think I should add my name to your dance card, Cousin Margaret. I cannot forsake you all evening, it seems neglectful on my part, even if you do seem busy.”

Maggie’s shoulders dropped with relief at the sight of Edward, who gave her a small bow, his body turned to edge the other man away.

“Oh, yes, of course, the…”

Maggie glanced down at her fan “…the waltz is free, Cousin Edward.”

“Then I will claim it,”

he said, taking her fan and adding the name Buckingham to it.

The man behind him managed to rally.

“I hope you have a dance left for me, Miss Seton?”

“I do,”

said Maggie politely. Edward turned away from her as the man added his name. She had a sudden desire to catch Edward’s arm and ask him to take him with her, but of course he was headed towards his first dance partner, Miss Elizabeth Belmont, the tiny mouse of a girl who was firmly stuck to a wall and seemed unwilling to dance at all, her cheeks blushing scarlet at his approach.

Maggie endured the first four dances, stepping neatly through her paces while counting in her head or making repetitive small talk with her partners, who were attentive enough.

By the sixth dance she was beginning to wish she could stop all this nonsense and rest somewhere quietly, perhaps with Edward, where they could laugh at all this formality and not feel constantly watched.

The level of scrutiny she was under was nothing compared to how the room watched Edward’s every move, the mamas edging forward their daughters to try and get into his eyeline, the young women simpering and flirting with him if they got the chance.

But at last it was the turn of the waltz and she saw more than one woman’s face turn disappointed when Edward headed towards her for this more intimate dance.

“At last, someone with whom I am not obliged to make small talk,” he said.

“Shall we dance in silence?”

His smile grew broader. “We can try. We will look most odd compared to all the other couples, I’m sure. People will think you are offended with me in some way.”

“We can try to look taciturn with one another, then they will be unsure who is displeased with whom.”

He chuckled. “Very well. No smiling. You have my word.”

The music began and they lifted their arms, creating once again the circle through which they would gaze at one another, and took their first steps.

Gazing without smiling or speaking at Edward was a strange experience.

At first, Maggie found it uncomfortable, knowing that they were being observed by all, but as the music lent her grace, she forgot about the onlookers all around them.

Because she could see only Edward, as though they were alone, she could lose the tightness she had felt all evening, instead relaxing, as their arms changed position into the more intimate hold, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist.

For a shocking moment she imagined his hands on her bare skin, only a few layers of fabric away.

Her cheeks grew warm, but the music kept her movements fluid, allowing him to guide her about the room.

Her face stayed solemn, not because of their teasing agreement to seem taciturn, but because of the intensity of feeling that was building in her, the music and the sway of the dance.

Edward’s eyes.

Edward gazed down at Maggie.

He had thought to claim the waltz only to rescue Maggie from the tedious looking man bowing over her hand, but he knew that was not true, she had danced with plenty of tedious looking men all evening and he had not claimed her for himself.

Only when he had glanced at his partner’s fan and seen the waltz coming up soon, had he made his way to Maggie.

He remembered how it had felt to dance the waltz together, none of the boring steps and turns, the exchange of partners required in other dances, this dance had felt different to him and it felt different again now.

Her body soft under his hands, her warm brown eyes steady on his, her hands on his shoulders.

He felt, suddenly, manly, in a way he had never felt before, having been told year after year that he was not as much of a man as his father, his brother.

But there was something so feminine and graceful about Maggie, so trusting in how she let herself be guided about the dance floor, that he felt himself grow in confidence, in the pleasure of holding her, being responsible for her movements, for steering her smoothly past other couples without even looking at them, maintaining the gaze between them.

Their silence, which he would have found awkward with another woman, he found strangely intimate, as though the two of them were entirely alone together and comfortable in one another’s presence, no false chatter or artificial attempts at flirtation, only a true connection, a sincere union.

And the waltz was over.

Edward wanted to tell the musicians to play it again, to prolong the moment, but instead there was a smattering of applause from the dancers and the chatter of the crowd.

“Can I take you for an ice?”

Edward asked.

Her lips parted in a ready smile at the idea, but the Duchess had appeared at their side, trailing a young woman behind her who was showing off a spectacular cleavage and hair so full of feathers she looked like a plump partridge.

“You will remember Miss Lindley, Edward, perhaps you would care to take her for an ice, the room is stifling.”

He had no choice but to bow, take the proffered hand and walk away with the woman, disappointment heavy in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to look back at Maggie, but that would be impolite to the young woman he was escorting, so he did not, hoping to return to Maggie later. But the Duchess played a more active role in managing the evening than he would have liked. She steered him towards certain dance partners, endlessly introduced him to young women to escort somewhere for something, if not ices then a drink, or something to eat as the evening wore on.

It was past two in the morning when they finally tumbled into their carriage and, exhausted, made it back to their bedrooms with barely a word passing between any of them.

Maggie sat on the edge of her bed and carefully removed her dancing shoes. Her feet ached. She understood now why Celine had bought so many pairs. Delicate as they were, she could not imagine them holding up for many more balls. She thought the evening had gone well, she could not see any faults Edward might have made, and she hoped she had made none herself. Mostly she had felt nervous, except for when she and Edward had been able to dance together. She smiled at the thought of it, hoped that going forward there would be at least one dance at every ball that she would enjoy. Jane had sat up for her, and, sleepy-eyed, she helped Maggie undress.

“Was it very elegant?”

she asked.

“It was,”

said Maggie. “But I am so tired.”

The dress off and her nightgown on, Jane dismissed, Maggie fell into a deep sleep.

She woke to bright sunlight streaming through the windows and the sight of Celine opening the curtains.

“Is it very late?”

“Half past ten. Her Grace is already at breakfast. How was the ball?”

“I think it went well. Is Her Grace pleased?”

Celine laid out a dress. “She has not said anything.”

Maggie hurried to wash and dress, then made her way downstairs. The Duchess stood up as Maggie entered the morning room and swept past her without a word, leaving Maggie standing uncertain and alone except for Joseph.

“Shall I order more tea?” he asked.

She nodded and sat down at the table, where cake, rolls, bread for toast and dishes of butter and preserves were laid out, even though it was already eleven, evidently the household staff made allowances for late nights at balls. There were also six bouquets of flowers, neatly arranged in vases, which appeared odd all clustered together as the floral arrangements in the house were usually larger, placed elsewhere and these were each very different in style between them. There were some letters nearby on a silver tray and two small parcels wrapped in brown paper, each fastened with a strip of white lace tied in a bow. Maggie took a piece of cake and ate some of it, still only half awake and wondering at the Duchess’ evident annoyance. She rethought the events of last night. Had either she or Edward behaved incorrectly? Had there been whispers? A gloom settled over her. They had failed in some way, failed at the very first hurdle.

“Is His Grace not yet up?”

she asked, as Joseph returned with a pot of fresh tea.

“He is up,”

said Joseph, “He will join you shortly, I am sure.”

He placed the tea close to her and then gestured towards the flowers and parcels. “Your deliveries.”

“Mine? What do you mean?”

Joseph seemed to be trying to hide a smile. “The flowers are all addressed to you, Miss Seton,”

he said. “As are the parcels from Brown’s.”

“Who has sent me flowers?”

“I believe some of the gentlemen with whom you danced last night.”

Maggie gaped at him. “That can’t be.”

Joseph picked up one of the vases and brought it closer to her. Amongst the flowers was a small white envelope, which he offered to her. She opened it, still uncertain, and read it aloud. “To Miss Seton, with compliments, Lord Frampton.”

She stared up at Joseph, amazed. “Are they all…?”

“They are all addressed to you.”

He handed each card over, and she read each message with increasing astonishment.

“And the parcels from Brown’s,”

Joseph reminded her, when she had finished.

“Brown’s?”

He passed her the two small parcels and she pulled at the lace strips, which undid to reveal cardboard containers of exquisitely iced biscuits. One contained gingerbread iced in white, onto which appeared to have been painted roses, as though on to a miniature canvas. The other contained lemon biscuits in the shape of sunflowers, the icing tinted bright yellow with green stems. They were tiny works of art and Maggie exclaimed over them.

“Brown’s is the best maker of iced biscuits in London, they specialise in gifts for ladies from gentlemen who wish to show their regard.”

Maggie stared at the biscuits and flowers. “Last night…”

“Was a triumph,”

said Joseph, smiling. “Everyone there believed you to be who you said you were. His Grace was considered charming, he is the catch of the season and you –”

he gestured towards the table of gifts “– you have evidently made an impression on the gentlemen of the ton .”

“But the Duchess…”

“… is not pleased that you are being seen as a good match also,”

explained Joseph, voice lowered. “The ton believes you to be a relation of the Duchess and therefore of good breeding. Regardless of a dowry, there are rich men who will consider you a suitable bride.”

Maggie shook her head, flushing scarlet. “I didn’t – I gave no– I would not –”

“There is no harm done,”

said Joseph gently, seeing her flustered. “You played your part as planned and it worked. His Grace will be offered any bride he chooses, and you are under no obligation to accept any gentleman’s attentions. The flowers and biscuits are a sign of a job well done.”

The door opened to admit Edward and Joseph stepped away from Maggie and returned to his place by the wall.

They attended only one social occasion a week, as a result keeping their scarcity value, the Duchess receiving endless invitations but turning most of them down with the excuse that they were only attending a very few parties due to their recent losses, that they would be delighted to accept further invitations come the full season which would get underway more fully in March. Maggie would have been happy enough, for all seemed to be going well, had it not been for a conversation she overheard early one morning, when she came down to breakfast and found the drawing room empty, but heard voices coming from the morning room, one of which filled her with a familiar dread. She slipped back out into the hallway, then moved closer to the sound, recognising Doctor Morrison’s voice, speaking with the Duchess.

“I am delighted to hear things are going well, Your Grace,”

he was saying, “though we must remember that what we see on the surface may not be the full truth. His Grace is still afflicted, and we cannot know in what way it may manifest at any time. We must maintain caution, especially when the season proper starts and greater demands are made of him.”

“Can he not be cured at all?”

the Duchess replied. “He seems to have made great progress, better than I would have expected.”

“Alas, these afflictions rarely disappear altogether, Your Grace. We have only to think of His Majesty… but you must not worry yourself. Should he become ill again at any time, we can always withdraw him to the countryside, possibly to the comforts of the Dower House, so long as a bride can be found as soon as possible.”

Maggie stepped carefully and quietly away from the door, then sat in the drawing room, her appetite entirely gone. Was Edward never to escape the doctor? No matter how well he was doing, would these doubts always hang over him?

On the fourth of November Parliament opened and Edward would be expected to attend. Maggie’s nerves rose. This was one place to which she could not accompany him.

“You will do well, I am sure,”

she whispered as he set off. Certainly, he looked the part, immaculately dressed, and at least he had attended enough social occasions to know he could hold his own.

Edward sat through the endless rituals and pomp of the opening. The Prince Regent gave a speech.

“My Lord, and Gentlemen, it is with the deepest regret that I am again obliged to announce to you the continuance of his Majesty’s lamented indisposition.”

Edward swallowed. Indisposition. Is that what they were calling it? The King himself, locked away from his rightful role, because of his madness, or his indisposition. While he, Edward, was sat here, where the King should also be, masquerading as a well man. Would it last? Could it last? The King had managed to hide it well enough for many years, but finally it had been too much to bear, and the madness had broken through the facade, had revealed itself and he had been locked away, allowing for the Prince to become the Regent.

“The great and splendid success with which it has pleased Divine Providence to bless his Majesty’s arms, and those of his Allies, in the course of the presentcampaign, has been productive of the most important consequences to Europe. In Spain the glorious and decisive victory obtained near Vittoria has been followed by the advance of the allied forces to the Pyrenees, by the repulse of the enemy in every attempt to regain the ground he had been compelled to abandon, by the reduction of the fortress of Saint Sebastian, and finally by the establishment of the allied army on the frontier of France. In this series of brilliant operations, you will have observed, with the highest satisfaction, the consummate skill and ability of the great commander Field Marshal the Marquis of Wellington, and the steadiness and unconquerable spirit which have been equally displayed by the troops of the three nations united under his command…”

It went on. More speeches, more ritual and ceremony. There was little for Edward to do, only to nod, to shake hands with various men who introduced themselves to him, nod his head at the condolences, bow to acquaintances already met during the social occasions he had attended thus far. In the carriage on the way home, he allowed himself to relax again. Perhaps it would not be so bad. There were topics of interest to be discussed, he had always enjoyed reading about matters of the world and now he would take part in them, might even contribute something useful. If his indisposition would not rear its ugly head, would not take such glimpses of liberty away from him. It was already late in the day, and he made his way to his room, refusing food, needing to sleep, to rest after the nerves of the day had faded.

“I’ve joined a gentleman’s club,”

Edward told Maggie.

“Which one?”

“Boodles.”

“Someone mentioned a club called Whites,”

she said, thinking back to past conversations at various dinners and parties.

He shook his head. “That was my father’s club. I don’t want to spend my days being told what a fine fellow he was by his friends. I want a place of my own.”

He looked at her. “Why are you smiling?”

“I like seeing you make your own choices, deciding who you want to be.”

“There are too many choices I’m not allowed to make for myself,”

he said. “I must at least have some say in my life. Even if it is only the club I frequent.”

“Are the men there friendly?”

“I have met a Mr Mowatt and a Lord Lymington, both of them seem pleasant enough.”

Maggie took pleasure seeing Edward grow interested in the matters of the day and how he might contribute to the governance of the country. He read the morning papers with care and attended his club, where he met with and discussed political matters with other men. She wished that he could be allowed more time to live this new life before selecting a bride, for he needed time to grow into his opinions and choices, but she doubted such time would be granted him.

Meanwhile they attended the balls and dinners the Duchess deemed most suitable. Maggie began to look out for Lady Honora at these gatherings, for she made a refreshing change from other young women of the ton, whose conversation was very circular and limited. Lady Honora, as an only child, would inherit her father’s estate and therefore took more of an interest in its day-to-day running than most young women.

“Our steward is growing advanced in years,”

she confided to Maggie. “We may have to replace him one day, it’s a shame his son has no abilities to follow him. How is your steward?”

Maggie had to confess she had had no dealings with him.

“Worth getting to know them,”

said Lady Honora, “They manage everything. Staff are always a problem, though,”

she added, shaking her head. “We’ve just taken two new girls as maids from the Foundling Hospital. They’re not bad but one of them screamed when she first saw Hector.”

Maggie, thrown by the mention of the Foundling Hospital, could only manage, “Who is Hector?”

“Pa’s dog. Nice little spaniel, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Turned out the poor girl had never seen a dog, can you imagine? Of course, they know nothing about life outside of the Hospital.”

Maggie tried to give laugh. “Imagine,”

she said. She had only seen a dog once when she had been younger, and it had come in with a delivery man.

“I go along there sometimes, Mama’s a great supporter of the Hospital. You can join us one day if you like.”

Maggie swallowed. The idea of walking amidst faces she knew well, while amongst the ranks of the lady visitors, was a horror too great to contemplate. “I am afraid the Duchess keeps me very busy,”

she managed at last.

“Well, just say the word if you’d like to accompany us,”

said Lady Honora. “We go often enough.”

Parliament was to be adjourned on the twentieth of December, but in view of the poor weather, most of the families left a week or so earlier. On the fifteenth, Maggie stood with Edward outside Atherton House, wrapped in her coat and furs.

“Will you be glad to be back at Atherton Park?”

she asked.

“I’ll be glad not to have to socialise for a while,” he said.

The Duchess emerged in time to hear him. “When we return you will find out what a real social season is like,”

she said, taking the footman’s hand to step into the carriage. “And we will expect a wedding by the summer.”

The day-and-a-half journey back passed in a cold silence which no furs or footwarmers could thaw.