In Praise of Younger Men (5 page)

Harriet stopped at the door, her hand yet clutching the handle. “Did you say ‘red petticoat’?”

Auntie Gill’s dream . . . hadn’t she said she’d seen Harriet wearing a red petticoat under her mother’s wedding dress?

Lady Harrington laughed. “Why, yes, dear, I did. It is a necessity for every young Edinburgh lady this year. Do you not know about the tradition?”

Harriet shook her head.

“Oh, sweet child, this is a leap year, you know, the best of all times for making marriages. If you should have any difficulty in winkling a proposal out of our young men, on Leap Year Day—February the twenty-ninth—all you need do is don your red petticoat and you can ask the man yourself!”

“A lady . . . can propose to a man?”

The viscountess bubbled. “Oh, yes, and it’s perfectly legal, but only on Leap Year Day, mind you. It is an ancient custom, written into law some five hundred years ago, and thankfully never written out. And if the man in question should dare to refuse, besides being possessed of a complete lack of decency and common sense, he is liable to pay a fine or make some sort of offering to you, a new silk dress, a pair of gloves, something in return. I’ve only seen that happen once though, dear, and she wasn’t nearly as lovely as you are. Just something to bear in mind, when you visit Madame Angelique for your gown. Farewell to you for now! Ta ta!”

Harriet stood at the door and watched the colorful matron make her way along the paved walkway toward the corner of the square. She hadn’t made it twenty yards before she spotted someone else of her acquaintanceship and was flagging them down with her lace-edged handkerchief.

“My lady . . . !”

Harriet shut the door and leaned her back against it, reflecting a moment or two on all she had just learned. Leap Year Day—February the twenty-ninth. Auntie Gill had seen a red petticoat in her dream. She had thought the dream had signified Harriet’s approaching birthday. But what if instead the dream was a sign of a day— a day when a lady could legally propose marriage to a man?

To be so bent on marriage
—

to pursue a man merely for the sake of a situation
—

is the sort of thing that shocks me.

—Lady Susan,
Jane Austen

The doorway of Firkin and Sons Bookshop was tucked away on a quiet corner lane off Thistle Street, flanked on one side by a clockmaker, a tearoom on the other, just west of St. Andrew Square. Devorgilla and Harriet had spent more than an hour at Madame Angelique’s choosing fabrics and getting measured for their gowns, which would, as Lady Harrington had promised, be ready in time for the assembly.

Afterward, the two ladies walked the few blocks from the modiste to the bookshop, Robbie pulling eagerly on his leash in front of them as fashionable coaches and decorated sedan chairs passed by on the busy street. While Devorgilla ducked into the confectioners’ shop for a batch of her favorite candied almonds, Harriet tied Robbie to the small iron boot scrape outside the door before heading inside to Firkin’s.

The bell above her head tinked softly as she entered the tidy shop that was surrounded floor-to-ceiling with shelves filled with neat rows of books of various size and color. Atlases littered the top of a broad table in one corner and newspapers were set out near plumply stuffed armchairs for those wishing to catch up on the day’s events.

Harriet stood for a moment just inside the door, trying to imagine how her mother must have felt when she had stood at that same place, for that same reason, all those years before. Had she been frightened? Excited? Had she ever known the heartache of loving a man she could not have? What had made her choose Sir Hugh on that spring afternoon? Harriet reached for her locket and closed her fingers around it, drawing courage from its presence in her hand as she stepped inside the shop and slowly looked around.

“Good day to you, madam.” A slim, scholarly-looking fellow in spectacles came forward from where he’d been sorting through a stack of books to greet her. “Welcome to Firkin and Sons, one of which I am.” He smiled at his own jest. “Is there something in particular I might help you find?”

Yes, please, if you wouldn ‘t mind, Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest unmarried young man . . .

Harriet smiled at him, shaking her head. “I just thought to browse a bit.”

The clerk grinned, nodding. “Well, we have just about anything a lady’d be looking for here at Firkin and Sons. Popular novels over here: Austen, Edgeworth, others. Poetry in the far corner. We even have those little etiquette guides the younger misses are so fond of.”

“Etiquette guides?”

“Aye, madam. You know the ones that tell you the proper way to dress and talk and how to catch a gentleman’s eye?”

Harriet’s interest was instantly piqued. “Indeed? And where did you say I might find those?”

“Toward the back of the shop there, madam. By the fashion journals. You can’t miss them.”

Harriet nodded, thanked the man, and departed immediately in the direction he’d indicated. She came at last to a small alcove set apart from the main area of the shop. A pretty little carved bench was set against the wall and Harriet stood, scanning the shelves until she happened upon a title in shining gold leaf:

A Reflection on Refinement by A Lady of Quality.

Curious, Harriet took the small book and opened to the first page.

All Manner of Useful Advice on Propriety, Beauty, Grace, and Accomplishment For the Cultivation of Fe-

male Etiquette By A Lady of Rank and Most Esteemed Grace and Virtue.

What followed was ten chapters of detailed instruction on most every topic of female interest, from fashion to deportment, coiffures to proper speech. It was all the things young girls were expected to know and practice in the sphere of society, all the things they were taught from a tender age by their mothers . . .

... all the things Harriet had never learned.

Harriet lowered onto the bench, reading through the first few pages.

A lady’s posture should always be that of a graceful willow, elegant and straight, without the slightest hint of a slouch.

Without even realizing it, Harriet straightened her back, drawing her shoulders back, her chin higher as she flipped the page to read on.

A true lady of elegance never looks into a man’s eyes directly. Instead she gives brief glances from out of the corner of her own eyes before casting her gaze downward demurely so as to draw attention to the softness of her cheek, the grace of her hands . . .

By the time she finished reading the first chapter, Harriet was convinced that the “Lady of Quality” who had written the book was nothing short of a genius. This book, and the assistance of Lady Lucinda Harrington, were everything Harriet needed to find herself a husband.

Harriet took some coins from her reticule and paid the clerk, then quickly left the shop, intent on spending the rest of that afternoon studying each page. She’d completely forgotten her initial purpose in coming to Firkin’s in the first place, to see if she might be as fortunate as her mother had been when she’d found her father. But as she approached the door to leave, Harriet had to stop when she found her way suddenly blocked.

“Hello, Harriet.”

His eyes were dark, blank, his expression guarded. Still her breath caught at the sight of him. She wondered if he were still angry with her.

“Tristan . . . hello. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d look for something good to read. Any recommendations . . . ?” He glanced at the book she held before her. “Ah,
A Reflection on Refinement
. I see you are arming yourself before heading off to the battlefield—I mean, the ballroom.”

Harriet frowned at his acid tone.

“I thought this book might prove helpful.”

Tristan shook his head. “You’ll have a far better chance catching yourself a husband by being yourself, Harriet, than by following whatever advice you’ll find in that absurd tome.”

She gave a small
harrumph
, reaching down to quickly untether Robbie. He was obviously still angry with her, and now ridiculed her attempts to secure her safe future. “And of course, your vast experience in finding a husband qualifies you to make that observation. I thank you for the advice, Tristan, but I’ll take my chances with someone who’s donned a corset at least once in their lifetime. Good day.”

She turned and walked swiftly away, tugging for Robbie to follow.

There is nothing like dancing after all. . .

One of the first refinements of polished societies.

—Pride and Prejudice,
Jane Austen

Harriet spent nearly every waking moment of the next few days preparing for the assembly.

Among the first things she did was hire a ladies’ maid, something she’d never had the need for before, though they certainly could have afforded the luxury. She had grown up dressing herself and arranging her own hair in its customary chignon simply because she preferred it, but according to Lady Harrington, the services of a ladies’ maid in town were not just a luxury. They were a necessity.

Her name was Delphine and she was French (as all good ladies’ maids are). They spent the entirety of a day just trying out a variety of coiffures, making note of those that best complemented Harriet’s features, and still other notes of those that did not. They experimented with cosmetics, Balm of Mecca, some lip rouge, but Harriet found she preferred to forgo the paint, thinking it made her look too like a French porcelain doll. The services of a dancing master were engaged, and within just a couple of days, Harriet had learned the steps of at least a dozen new dances.

She accomplished more in the space of those few days than she had in a month at home. It seemed an extraordinary amount of preparation for one simple night out, but if it helped her to find a husband by the end of the month, then Harriet was all for it.

On the night of the assembly, Harriet sat at her dressing table staring in the mirror while Delphine fixed her hair, her stomach twisting in worrisome knots. Her gown had not yet arrived from Madame Angelique’s, and the hour was growing quite late. What if her gown wasn’t ready in time? What if she completely forgot how to dance the quadrille? What if she got so nervous, her stomach so upset, over the importance of this one night, she threw up on her best possibility for a husband?

At the sound of the front door knocker, and the footsteps of the footman approaching her chamber, Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. At last, her gown had arrived.

The box from Madame Angelique’s was pink and pretty and tied with a bright red ribbon. Harriet slipped the silk creation on, waiting while Delphine quickly arranged her skirts around her, then turned to see the finished product in the glass.

A moment later, bedlam erupted.

“Auntie Gill!”

Devorgilla hastened up the three flights of stairs to Harriet’s bedchamber to find her beloved niece standing in the middle of the room with tears rolling down her freshly powdered cheeks.

“Whatever is the matter, Hattie?”

“Look at this!” Harriet turned to the glass once again. “I cannot go to the assembly looking like . . . like . . . I mean, good God, I’m half undressed! My ankles are showing. Not only that, my breasts are showing!”

The gown was cut in a Grecian style with a high waist over straight, unadorned skirts meant to drape closely to Harriet’s figure. Short capped sleeves decorated with knots of ribbon set off the elegant line of her shoulders. The color, a pale blue-green, was a perfect complement to Harriet’s hair and eyes. The neckline, cut square and deep, showed the shape of her bosom quite nicely.

Devorgilla came into the room. “Harriet, dearest, the gown is stunning, truly! It becomes you very well. I promise you will look as elegant as a swan.”

“A swan with half its feathers plucked.”

Devorgilla took Harriet’s hands and turned to face her. “My dearest Harriet, you are like a daughter to me. Before she died, I promised your mother that I would watch over you. Do you honestly believe I would allow you to go out on this, the most important night of your life thus far, dressed inappropriately?”

Harriet stared at her, mute.

“Well, do you?”

Slowly, tentatively, she shook her head.

“Of course I wouldn’t. Now listen to me. Up until the past several days, you have lived your life sheltered from the rest of the world. You have never been to the city, have never moved about in elegant society. The time has now come to stop hiding your light, Harriet Macquair Drynan, and let it shine for all to see!”

Wearing that dress, there wouldn’t be much of her that wouldn’t be seen . . .

Still, Harriet knew that her aunt was right. At home in Galloway, she could wear her serviceable woolens and linens. But if she wanted to catch the eye of a young man, she would need to stand out. And, besides, what else could she do? She had nothing else appropriate to wear to the assembly, and she simply couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity of this night.

By the time Delphine put the finishing touches to Harriet’s coiffure, she no longer resembled herself in any manner. Her scalp stung from all the tugging and pulling it had taken to create this work of art, but as she looked on it in the mirror, Harriet had to admit it had all been worth it.

Her hair had been curled and twisted and pinned into a style that left tight corkscrew ringlets of red hanging about her neck and dangling down against one cheek. A pretty bit of matching ribbon provided the finishing touch. The end result, the gown, the hair, the white silk gloves that reached to her elbows, all of it came together perfectly, even if she was showing more of herself than she’d ever dreamed decently possible. But just when she’d thought the preparations complete, Devorgilla returned to Harriet’s chamber, dressed for the assembly, and carrying a small velvet-covered box.

“My dear, these were your mother’s. She charged me with the responsibility of giving them to you when the time was right. I do not think there can be any more appropriate time than now.”