Page 9 of Lady for a Season (Regency Outsiders)

The journey to London made Maggie feel ill. The endless rocking of the carriage was part of the reason, but seeing Edward grow ever more silent and anxious as the miles went past, and the Duchess grew ever more watchful, as though he were about to bolt, caused a hard knot of fear in Maggie’s stomach. She did not even feel she could converse with Edward as she would like to, to try and make him smile or even laugh with absurdities, under the Duchess’ eye. If only she and Edward could have had a carriage to themselves.

As it was, when they stopped at coaching inns and were shown, with great deference, to private parlours in which to eat, Maggie had to watch as Edward ate less and less, his face tight with anxiety.

They ate in rigid silence and returned to the carriage, for further jolting miles. The servants were travelling ahead of them, so that they could be ready to attend them at each coaching inn, but even Joseph and Celine’s friendly faces gave Maggie scant comfort.

They stayed overnight in an inn and were shown to rooms which were comfortable enough, but Maggie spent most of the night listening out in case Edward should need her and the next day found the carriage’s rocking worse than ever, swaying between nausea and sleep, hour after weary hour.

They entered London in the late afternoon, but it still took hours to reach Atherton House. The streets were better than the country roads but full of people and other vehicles, slowing progress to a crawl, even though the heraldry of their carriage gave it precedence.

At last, with twilight falling, they pulled into a vast square of grand houses, with pretty gardens in the centre. The carriage drew to a halt in front of an imposing house, the door swiftly opened by a footman.

“Welcome home, Your Grace, Your Grace, Miss Seton.”

Maggie’s legs felt weak after not moving them for many hours, but she managed to climb out of the carriage, then stood gazing up at the house. It stood four storeys high, with a basement underneath it, and, she was later to discover, both gardens and a mews for the stables at the back. Atherton House stood on the south-eastern side of Grosvenor Square and was one of the largest houses, built when the square was first developed, more than eighty years previously.

News of their arrival having spread, they were welcomed by the butler, Webb, and the housekeeper, Mrs Green, while a flurry of footmen tended to their luggage, so that they were soon installed in their new bedrooms to change for dinner. Jane had been allowed to travel with them as Maggie’s personal maid and was wide-eyed at being in London.

“I shall get lost, Miss,”

she whispered, once they were shown to the Willow Room and Edward had been put next door in the Oak Room. All their main luggage had already arrived ahead of them, in large trunks and boxes, so that they had travelled only with what they needed to make them comfortable for the journey. Jane hurried to begin unpacking. “I’ve been at Atherton Park since I was first in service, but I’ve never been here, and Mrs Green looks fierce.”

Maggie had similar feelings but could not allow them to show, so she only gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I am sure you will do well, Jane,”

she said, looking about her. The layout of the space was similar to what she had at Atherton Park, but here the decoration featured Chinese wallpaper showing a delicate scene of willow trees and colourful songbirds in blues and greens.

“Duval says you’re to go shopping for all sorts of finery,”

breathed Jane. “I shall look forward to dressing you for the balls and dinners and grand parties, Miss. I’ll have so much to tell the other maids when we go home for Christmas.”

Christmas felt a very long way off to Maggie. She could only hope that they would last that long without making any errors or Edward being unable to bear the pressure of this new life.

Once dressed for dinner, she knocked on Edward’s door and found him in the Oak Room, where panelled wood and a wallpaper of green oak leaves and golden rampant lions was both grander and gloomier compared to the Iris at home.

“Are you ready for whatever lecture my mother has planned tonight? Edward asked, a wry twist to his mouth.

“Tomorrow morning, we could visit the stables and see Merlin and Lacey,”

she suggested.

His face brightened. “How do you always know the right thing to say to cheer my spirits? Come, let us face Mama together.”

The dining room was as large as the one at Atherton Park and the dinner, if anything, more elaborate. Crawfish soup, lamb, roast beef and mutton, veal collops and peas, sweetbreads, fried artichokes, green truffles, fruit in jelly, calves’ ears, damson tarts and more. When Maggie had first come to Atherton Park, she had felt obliged to try everything, but by now she was accustomed to choosing only what she had a taste for and leaving the rest.

“I will take Maggie to Gunter’s for an ice tomorrow,”

said Edward, when the silence had gone on longer than was bearable. He addressed Maggie. “It is a pastry shop with the best ices and dainties in town, and it is only a couple of streets to the east of here, in Berkeley Square.”

“You will go nowhere without my express permission,”

ordered the Duchess. “Neither of you are fit to be seen until you are more appropriately dressed. You both look positively shabby. Three weeks should do it. Until then, we are not at home to callers. We will make it known that we wish to enter society very slowly, owing to our recent bereavements. Besides, everyone will know that we will need new wardrobes, since we were absent for most of last season and in mourning until recently.”

Later, Maggie protested to Celine.

“Shabby?”

Celine laughed. “For London and the ton , yes.”

“But Edward looks elegant and I – I am dressed perfectly well, even if they are hand-me-downs.”

Celine shook her head. “Her Grace is right,”

she said. “Your clothes look outmoded, and His Grace’s are not cut as well as expected for a duke. The tailor from Aylesbury did well enough for the countryside, but we need a London tailor to do the job properly. Besides, His Grace has put on some weight and is broader in the shoulder, I think, from all the exercise. We will be keeping the tailors and modistes busy in the next three weeks. You do not have anything like enough clothes.”

“I have six dresses.”

“That would not be enough were it three times over,”

said Celine.

The Duchess lost no time. The next morning, she began putting her plans in place.

“Joseph has gone to Weston the tailor to have him call on His Grace later today. He will take all necessary fittings and be entrusted with commissions for every part of his wardrobe. My modiste will call on me here tomorrow.

Celine, you will see to it that Margaret is appropriately dressed. Remember that how she is dressed will reflect on our family.

The young ladies of the ton , especially those whose families may be noble but, shall we say, lacking in funds, must look at her and imagine that they, too, will be so dressed once they marry Edward and become the Duchess of Buckingham. Spare no expense.

They must be dazzled, they must not question anything about Edward’s suitability and a lavish display of fripperies will distract them.

I cannot wear anything too bright as I am still in half-mourning, so Margaret’s clothing is of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Maggie sat silently.

Here they were, the social season now close at hand.

The endless lessons and preparation would soon be at an end and the drive to find Edward a wife would begin in earnest, his wealth and title laid out as bait for unwitting families keen to make a good match, Maggie’s clothes there to turn the heads of foolish young girls barely out of their nurseries, daydreaming of being a Duchess, of wearing beautiful clothes and spending their lives flitting from one social occasion to another.

And the truth? The truth was that it was all a snare, a trap.

A young woman would perhaps find herself rich and titled, yes, but her husband might be taken from her as soon as she had borne an heir, leaving her in the icy control of Edward’s mother.

Maggie shivered.

“Your shawl?”

offered Celine.

But the cold feeling in the pit of Maggie’s stomach would not go away.

That evening Celine came to Maggie after dinner, ready to make a list of places to shop. “We will begin tomorrow morning. Joseph will accompany us, and we will take the carriage. We will use Her Grace’s modiste, Mrs. Pontet in Pall Mall. She can measure you and we will choose from the latest fashions. But we will also need ribbons, hats and more silk stockings. Shoes and boots from Wood. A riding habit.”

“I have a riding habit,”

protested Maggie.

Celine laughed. “You cannot possibly be seen in that old thing,”

she said. “You will require a made-to-measure habit and a hat. Most days you will ride in the carriage with Her Grace on Rotten Row, but on some occasions, you will ride out with His Grace, and to do so you must be immaculately turned out.”

She ticked each item off on her fingers. “Fans. Perfume. Parasols. Gloves. Muffs, they are worn very large at present so Her Grace’s older ones will not do. Opera dress with a hooded cloak. Pelisses, spencers, reticules, chemisettes and fichu, feathers for your hats and hair. Fancy dress.”

“Fancy dress?”

“Oh, there is always at least one fancy dress ball, where you dress up in a costume. And often a masquerade as well.”

“Masquerade?”

“A fancy-dress ball but where you wear masks. Some consider them risqué, as one cannot be sure with whom one is dancing, but everyone goes anyway.”

She gave a sly smile. “Of course, mamas who are trying to marry off a son or daughter will drop hints about what they are wearing. I am sure Her Grace will let it be known what His Grace is wearing so that the young ladies will know to whom they should make themselves pleasant. Anyone on her list, for sure.”

“List?”

“Every lady has a list of suitable matrimonial prospects for the season,”

said Celine. “Her Grace will have one for His Grace.”

“Who is on it?”

Celine shook her head. “She will tell you herself,”

she said, reluctantly. “His Grace will be informed of the women Her Grace considers most worthy of his time and attention and on whom she would look most favourably.”

The ribbon counter at Harding, Howell a bold scarlet transformed into daintiest pink, navy blue lightened to a spring sky. Woollen braids, gauzy silk wisps, rich velvets. Stripes, scalloped and picot edges, stiff-tight woven linen and slippery satin.

“Ribbons are every lady’s friend,”

Celine said, in her element. “The plainest outfit can be transformed with ribbons. Your bonnet and sash, naturellement , but also trim for your neckline and sleeves, to tie your dancing shoes or weave through your hair, your fan’s loop for your wrist, the finish on a basket. Besides which there is ribbon embroidery to finish a gown’s hem, if your modiste employs someone skilled. Poor ribbon work can look very clumsy, but when it is done well it can be so pretty. I am a fair hand at it myself,”

she added as she fingered a narrow pink ribbon. “This, you see, if you worked it well it would make rosebuds, then a fresh green for stems and leaves.”

Maggie nodded as though she were fully aware of all these uses but in truth, she had never even owned a single ribbon until she had come to Atherton Park. It would have been seen as a frippery by the Hospital.

“We will require a fair few, given how many items we need to trim and finish,”

said Celine. “Do you choose those you most take a fancy to, and I will select those I know we will need.”

Maggie stood frozen with indecision. How to choose? Matron’s voice echoed in her head: The girls of the Hospital are clean and neat and that is all that is required of them in the way of looks. She reached out to stroke a shimmering peacock blue silk three inches wide. Celine had secured the services of an assistant and was pointing here and there, rattling off lengths and discussing the merits of each fabric for their intended purposes.

“A good choice,”

she said, noticing what Maggie had touched. “Perfect for a bonnet tie. Three yards.”

“I didn’t…”

Maggie began, but Celine was not listening, she was indicating in rapid succession a wispy rose-pink, a deep blue velvet, and a white satin.

“For your stockings,”

she said of the white satin.

A giddy sickness rose in Maggie.

Soon she would be wearing white silk stockings embroidered with tiny pink roses, held up with the white satin ribbon, while pulling on a bonnet trimmed and tied with the peacock blue… it was too much.

She wanted them, these beautiful things, wanted them so desperately.

They were everything she had never had and had sometimes, wickedly, envied in others, but they were also everything she had been told were above her place, unnecessary frivolities leading only to vanity and pride.

And all of it was false, a lie.

Would they be able to tell, these leading members of society who had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of their own kind, would they take one look at her and know that she was only play-acting the part of a lady? Surely they would.

At least Edward had been born to this life; some of it still came naturally to him from his early days.

But everything Maggie had learnt to enable her to get through the season had come in the last few months; she had no prior knowledge to fall back on.

She would like to stop here, to declare that she could not do this, but then Edward would face them all alone and she could not leave him to do that.

“I feel…”

she began, and touched her throat, where the contradictory feelings were gathering.

“Are you unwell, Miss?”

asked the assistant, catching the gesture and looking concerned.

“No, I just… felt…”

Her protestations were waved away. A chair was brought at once, another assistant dispatched for refreshment.

“I’m sorry to be such trouble,”

Maggie murmured, blushing hotly at all the fuss, the heads turning as she took a seat by the ribbon counter. She was a fool: falling sick at buying a few ribbons, what sort of nonsense was this?

“Trouble, Miss? Not at all. Shopping can be very tiring for a lady,”

said the assistant, evidently well trained in the art of soothing rich women and their imagined frailties. Behind the assistant, Celine smiled warmly at Maggie and nodded when a delicate cup and saucer were proffered, before turning back to the selection process while Maggie sipped the hot tea and tried to smile at the second assistant whose entire job it now was to hover by her side in case she should faint or do something else ladylike.

“Gloves,”

said Celine, consulting her list. “And perfume.”

The scents at the dark wooden perfume counter at perfumer Floris gave Maggie a headache. Celine had her try samples of more than fifteen different perfumes, some in fresh citrus, others in a too-strong woody vetiver. As Celine was picking up another bottle Maggie touched her arm.

“Celine, I prefer the rose perfume you make yourself,”

she said. “I know it may not be made by a grand perfumer, but it is warm and delicate, and it reminds me of walking in the rose garden.”

She expected Celine to argue that a home-made perfume was not good enough but instead the maid dipped her head with a pleased smile. “I am glad you like it so much. It reminds me of my mother.”

She inspected the vast array and pointed. “In that case, we shall simply purchase a bottle worthy of storing it.”

A tiny but beautiful rose-hued glass bottle with a silver cap was purchased and Maggie hurried back outside where the air, even if it did include dung from passing horses, did not at least give her a headache from too many rich scents packed into one space.

By the time they had finished shopping, Maggie was surprised there was any room left in the carriage. They were surrounded by boxes, beautifully presented and wrapped. Taking up the most room were hat boxes, five of them, with another three to be delivered. Two ready-to-wear gowns were laid in a far larger box, where minor alterations only would be required, to be done by Celine. Outside, larger boxes had been strapped onto the carriage, including two vast boxes which one might reasonably expect to have something substantial in and actually only contained two muffs, one a rich brown fur, the other a delicate confection of white silk and swansdown, which Maggie said to Celine was like packing a cloud into a box.

“A lady can keep private items in there as well as in her reticule,”

pointed out Celine, practically. “Her fan, a handkerchief, some ladies even use them to conceal private correspondence.”

Maggie believed one could easily keep a bourdaloue inside muffs as large as the ones they had purchased, in case of unexpectedly requiring to relieve oneself, but she supposed that was not a ladylike thing to say, let alone think, so she kept the thought to herself.

Celine also purchased a bunch of blue-jay feathers.

“What are they for?”

“I have a plan for your riding habit and hat.”

“A special riding hat? Won’t a bonnet do? We have bought enough of them.”

“It is like a top hat, but for a lady,”

explained Celine. “You have not worn one until now as there was no-one to see you and they need to be made to measure. But you cannot go riding without a hat.”

At 37 Golden Square Maggie was fitted for a riding habit by Mr S. Clark, a gentleman’s tailor, who took endless measurements as well as one of Celine’s blue-jay feathers, tucking it next to his notes.

“Why does the modiste not make riding habits?”

she asked Celine, once they were back in the carriage.

“A few do now,”

admitted Celine. “But Her Grace prefers things done traditionally, and riding habits have always been made by men, to give a more tailored look. Now, we will need some items for your reticules. The modiste will make a few for you, to match your dresses or compliment them, but you will need items to carry inside them.”

“Such as?”

“A sewing étui.”

“A what?”

“A little sewing case, with needles, pins, thread, scissors. In case you should be out and have anything happen to your clothes, so that it can be remedied.”

Celine added a tiny silver vinaigrette, a small purse, a cosmetics case from Pear’s made out of green-tinted sharkskin leather which contained a face powder called Almond Bloom with matching rouge in Liquid Blooms of Roses, Rose Lip Salve in a round silver cachou tin, a pocketbook to keep notes in with a tiny silver pen to accompany it, a carved ivory fan and half a dozen dainty handkerchiefs trimmed with exquisite lace.

Most of the items were minute, the cosmetics cases measuring just two inches, so that they might all fit comfortably within a dainty reticule.

They ordered visiting cards marked Miss Margaret Seton, Atherton House , from a printer, to be delivered as soon as possible and which would reside in a small scroll-decorated silver case.

They visited Lock I am not sure she will do. Although, if she ends up having to run the estate by herself, it might be necessary to have a firm hand…”

She made a face, but then put a small mark next to Lady Honora Fortescue’s name. Miss Belmont’s name received a different mark.

“Lady Anna Huntington…”

Maggie watched Edward’s face as the various names and titles passed, how his hands gripped the book. No pages were turned as the Duchess enumerated the possible brides.

“Viscount and Viscountess Lilley and their daughter Miss Lilley.”

“But their surnames…”

began Maggie, quickly subsiding at the look on the Duchess’ face.

“Barely been seen in town since she was presented three years ago and still unmarried, her family are always saying she’s only shy, but I’m not risking her being sickly or mad, she’s altogether kept too much away to be certain. And she’s often at the seaside in Margate, more than anyone ought to be unless they have need of the sea air for some reason.”

Her name was crossed off the list in one certain stroke of the quill.

“Lady Celia Follett.”

She shrugged. “Not really on the market. She has been promised since she was a baby to the Earl of Comerford. She’s being presented at court this year, she will have one social season and then marry him as planned, so she’s irrelevant. She also has a deformity of the hand, which is most unfortunate. Besides, I met her three years ago and she was pert, had a great deal too much to say for herself. Asked far too many questions.”

Again, the crossing-out.

Maggie wondered whether Lady Celia and the Earl were happy with an arranged marriage, but she doubted whether anyone would have bothered asking them. Edward would suffer the same fate: a woman being chosen, not for her good heart or pleasant character, not for any thought of love or at the very least companionship or friendship, but only because she would not ask too many questions, would be sufficiently overawed by the prospect of marrying a duke to go along with the plan, knowing nothing about her future.

“You will excuse me.”

Edward stood up, made a perfunctory bow to his mother and left the room.

“I think I should…”

said Maggie, glad of the excuse to stop listening to the list. She hurried after Edward and caught up with him on the stairs.

“A list!”

He leant against a wall. “A list, as though they were brood mares at an auction, so that I might better choose from amongst them. Nothing about whether we might suit one another, about what they are like, unless my mother considers it worth noting that they are “too pert”

… it is worse than I expected.”

Maggie nodded, not knowing what to say, for she agreed with him.

He sighed. “It seems the whole world is mad, and yet I am the one called a lunatic.”

Maggie shook her head. “You are not a lunatic,”

she said. “It is a strange world, and it demands strange things of you, things it perhaps ought not to…”

He took her hand in his. “I wish the world saw things as you do, Maggie,”

he said. He squeezed her hand. “At least I have you by my side to remind me I am not as mad as they say I am.”

He released her hand and resumed climbing the stairs. “I will try not to wake you tonight.”

“You always say that as though I resent it,”

she reminded him. “I do not mind. I am glad to comfort you when the bad dreams come.”

They had come to the doors leading to their rooms.

“Goodnight, Maggie.”

“Goodnight, Edward.”

Maggie sat on the edge of her bed, hands absentmindedly undoing her hair, dropping hairpins here and there.

The Duchess’ list had unsettled her more than she cared to admit to Edward.

It was so coldly done, without emotion, only a hard assessment of each girl and her family.

Were the mamas of the ton currently making their own lists? Edward would feature on them, of course, a young handsome duke, rich and actively seeking a wife.

What would they say about him in the privacy of their homes? What cutting remarks might they be making even now, assessing his wealth and power, knowing nothing about the Edward she had grown to care for, a man uncertain of himself but with a kind heart and a warm laugh when they were alone, with the bluest eyes and hair that caught the sunlight when he rode out… None of this would count for anything, to the mamas.

Would he be judged only on the diamonds their daughters might wear, the grand homes, carriages and servants they would have at their disposal, the sums they would be free to spend at the modiste of their choice.

Was that all Edward was to them? He was worth so much more.

How might she help him find someone who would see him for himself? Who would love him as he deserved to be loved.

By the end of September, the Duchess deemed them ready for their full debut into society.

“Lady Godwin’s dinner and Lady Halesworth’s ball will be enough of a start to the season,”

she decreed. “It will give people a chance to see us and to know that Edward is serious about finding a wife this season. After that, there will be no difficulties in finding enough people who are interested in him, and a quick engagement and marriage will be our intent. Preferably by the end of this season. June is always a good time of year for weddings, before the ton return to their homes for the summer.”

The night before Lady Godwin’s dinner Maggie awoke to Edward’s shouts and hurried to him.

“I cannot breathe,”

he gasped.

She sat on the edge of his bed, stroking his arm, his shoulder. “You can,”

she assured him. “Breathe, Edward. Breathe.”

“But if I cannot… if it is like this at the dinner…”

He pulled away from her, staggering to his feet, pacing the floor, his breathing ragged and too fast. She followed him and as he came close to a wall, pushed him against it so that he could no longer pace the room, pressed a hand against his bare chest, her warm skin against his cold shaking body. “I will be there. You will do splendidly, I know it.”

It took a while before she felt his muscles relax under her hand, heard his breathing slow. When she lifted her hand away, he nodded, still trying to breathe normally.

“Lie down, now,”

she said and he obeyed her, touching her hand again for reassurance.

“Sit with me,”

he murmured, and she did so, perched on the edge of his bed, watching his eyes slowly close as he grew calm. She did not leave the room until he was asleep, her stomach tightly knotted with worry.

Celine oversaw Jane as she did Maggie’s hair, the back scooped up into a braided bun, the front curled into elegant ringlets after a hairdresser had been called to the house to cut the front of her hair shorter so that it could be more fashionably arranged.

“Keep still , Miss,”

Jane begged.

Maggie tried. But she was worried for Edward. Tonight would mark his social debut. No doubt she would be seated somewhere else, not by his side. What if he became afraid, began to breathe too fast, to grow dizzy? What if they asked questions about his whereabouts all these years and he stammered or withdrew into silence? If the evening went badly, word would sweep round the ton that the Duke of Buckingham, on paper such a desirable catch for any young lady, was strange, odd, eccentric… a lunatic. What if questions were asked, what if the servants’ rumour-mill, so deadly accurate, were to begin churning?

“There,”

said Celine. “Your hair is done. See how well you look. Jane, you may go down to your dinner.”

Maggie stood in front of the looking glass, clutching her reticule. The blue silk she was wearing made her look cool, though her colour was heightened, her cheeks over-pink. Her neckline was low, revealing too much cleavage.

“It seems immodest,”

she murmured.

“You can see more than someone standing in front of you,”

pointed out Celine.

“Can I go to him now?”

Celine nodded and Maggie hurried towards the door, then turned on the threshold.

“Thank you,”

she managed. “I appreciate all you have done to make me… fit for this.”

You must not be afraid,”

Celine said gently. “You are more a lady than plenty I have known.”

Maggie knocked on Edward’s room, but there was no answer. Cautiously, she opened the door, but the room was empty. Panic overtook her.

Had he run away while she was having her hair curled into the absurd ringlets? Was he cowering somewhere, refusing to attend the dinner? She hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

“There you are. We have been kept waiting for you.”

The Duchess, magnificent in a dark plum dress, glittering with diamonds, a heavy velvet cloak on top. And by her side – Maggie let out her breath – Edward, immaculately dressed in formal black with white shirt and cravat, white silk stockings and black buckled shoes, holding his gloves and looking entirely in command of himself.