La Petite Four (2 page)

For Priscilla had her own reasons for fleeing the celebration going on downstairs. Like her father, she knew the dire consequences should their Dreaded Family Secret be revealed. She intended to give everyone something else to talk about by having the most elegant, exclusive ball that London had ever seen. The four girls had been planning it for months, going over every detail, dreaming of the moment they’d burst into Society and the world would be theirs.

Oh, why did Lord Robert Townsend have to spoil it!

“Hurry,” Emily begged Priscilla, gathering up her things. Daphne had found Emily’s reticule. The little bag was stretched out of proportion, bulging with her nightgown. She stuffed the crumpled lawn material down harder and yanked the cords of the bag tight.

“Stop fretting,” Priscilla said, fastening the elaborate black braid that closed her gown. “Miss Martingale is far too busy cozying up to Acantha Dalrymple’s father to bother about us. Besides, I had a vision last night for the ball.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward them. “Goldfish.”

Daphne, who had perched beside her sister on the bed, caught her breath as if Priscilla had imbued the word with mystic properties. Emily frowned. “Goldfish?”

“Indeed,” Ariadne piped up, pulling her journal and pencil from her reticule as if to record the moment. “Remember the Celebration Dinner with the Allies last year? The prince had streams meandering down the table and real goldfish.”

Trust Ariadne to remember. Her mind brimmed with everything she read: plays, pamphlets, poetry, prose.

Emily wrinkled her nose. “
The Times
reported the fish died halfway through dinner! I doubt the sight of rotting fish will do much to set the sophisticated tone you so desire, Pris.”

Priscilla sniffed. “I’m quite certain my fish would not be so vulgar as to die before the final course.” While Emily shook her head, Priscilla put on her straw bonnet. The glossy black feathers curled about one cheek. “There, all ready.”

Emily had no reason to delay, yet she could not make herself leave. Priscilla tugged at the braided collar of her traveling gown as if she couldn’t get it to sit properly. Daphne was swinging her full skirts against the side of the walnut bed as if she could not bear to set foot on the floor.

Adiadne cleared her throat. “I suppose you’d better go.”

They all stared at one another.

Then Daphne leaped off the bed and enveloped Emily in a hug. “We’ll send word the moment we reach London.”

Priscilla and Ariadne joined them, arms tangling. Memories flowed from their touch: Ariadne hiding with Emily under the covers with smuggled lemon drops, Daphne trying to teach Priscilla to fence with the fireplace poker, Priscilla crossing her eyes at Emily as they waltzed with the vicar’s ungainly twin sons. Once more Emily’s eyes felt hot, but how silly! It wasn’t the end; it was just the beginning!

Priscilla evidently thought the same, for she gave them all a squeeze. “Remember, we are La Petite Four, always together like matched cakes on a plate. The world will speak in reverent tones of the year Lady Emily Southwell, Priscilla Tate, and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas made their debuts. You’ll see.”

“Where are you going?” a shrill voice demanded from the doorway.

Emily rolled her eyes, even as Daphne gave a muffled groan and Ariadne paled. Priscilla turned to face the vile creature who had tormented them all through school.

“Why, we’re off to London, of course, Acantha,” Priscilla said as if the girl were simple. “You’ll want to return downstairs and accept congratulations. I’m certain your father at least is pleased you won back all the silly cups he paid for.”

Acantha’s thin lips tightened in her narrow face, and her long fingers smoothed over the engraved lettering on the cup she held. The Prize in Art! Emily fisted her hands to keep from ripping the thing from Acantha’s grasp.

“Well,” Acantha said, “I doubt I’d take so many of the cups if I hadn’t some modicum of talent.” She smiled as if she were genuinely sorry she was so talented and they were not.

Oh, how that smile lied.

“It does not signify,” Emily said, taking Priscilla’s arm and plowing forward so that Acantha was forced to pick up her spring green skirts and back out of the doorway. “We must go.”

“Running away, are you?” Acantha sneered, following them. “A shame you don’t dare face your beau without a cup in hand. I’d be delighted to entertain him in your absence.”

“Lord Robert Townsend is
not
my beau,” Emily informed her.

“Though I’m certain Lady Emily will be only too happy to leave you with her castoffs,” Priscilla said sweetly.

“At least I won’t be
wearing
castoffs this Season,” Acantha said, her free hand touching the perfect strand of Oriental pearls around her swanlike neck. They shone nearly as brightly as the hideous pomade she insisted on pouring over her lank brown hair.

Now Priscilla bristled. Oh, but Acantha was good at finding weaknesses! She poked and poked at you until she found the one place that hurt most.

Not today. Not anymore. “Pay her no heed,” Emily told Priscilla. “Nothing she says will stop us.”

“Oh, Miss Martingale!” Acantha sang out, high voice piercing the air. “Miss Martingale, Lady Emily is leaving!”

Very likely their headmistress could not hear Acantha, but Emily met Priscilla’s gaze and saw the same fear written there. They could not be caught, or Emily was trapped. And the longer Priscilla remained at Barnsley, the more likely someone was to ask questions that were better off never answered.

As one, they turned and ran, past the startled Acantha, past Ariadne and Daphne, who waved in encouragement, right down the servants’ stair to the ground floor.

Emily was once more breathless as they tumbled out into the kitchen. Everyone from the brawny footmen to the beefy cooks to the scrawny pot boy stopped and stared. Priscilla waved a regal hand. “I know we left you gifts this morning, but we simply wanted to share our best wishes and thank you again for your kind service these many years. Carry on.”

They strolled out the door to the kitchen yard and promptly collapsed into giggles.

“I wish I could do that,” Emily said. “I’d just sound rude.”

Priscilla patted her feathered bonnet back into place. “I’ve learned it’s all in how you present yourself. Now, let’s find Father.”

Good advice, but dozens of carriages lined the drive, some small and humble, others large and covered in gilt. One belonged to Lord Robert. Emily knew she could still be caught if she wasn’t careful. She was so busy looking around that she nearly collided with a tall young man in a brown coat and trousers.

He reached out an arm to steady her. “Pardon me.”

“My fault entirely,” Emily assured him. She glanced up and stared. His hair was the color of a sunset on a stormy day, red and gold and brown blending in wild disarray, and his eyes were the gray of the storm. But his smile, well, his smile was positively wicked.

As if her stare amused him, he touched two fingers to his forehead. An odd salute. Who was he? She hadn’t noticed him at the graduation ceremony. He couldn’t be anyone’s brother or cousin; she’d have heard.

“Emily!” Priscilla called ahead of her. “This way.”

“Lady Emily!” Miss Martingale called behind her. “I must have a word with you.”

She was caught! Her heart leaped into her throat, and she clutched her locket with the absurd thought that it was the only thing holding her heart in her body. As the young man eyed her locket with a frown, she knew there was nothing for it. She lifted her dark green skirts, right in front of him, and ran once more.

2

“Finches,” Priscilla said as the carriage rolled through the greening countryside on the way to London the next day. “We could set them amidst the roses I’ve ordered and have them serenade the guests. The ball is supposed to be an enchanted garden, after all. What do you think?”

Emily was too busy looking back to answer. Was that the dust of another carriage approaching, or merely the dust they’d left behind? Was that squeal from the Tate carriage’s poorly made springs, or a voice ordering them to stop?

“Emily?” Priscilla said, a little louder.

Emily turned with a grimace. “Sorry. No finches, Pris. They’d fly into someone’s hair, or worse.”

“Oh, I suppose,” Priscilla allowed. “But perhaps stuffed finches, then. Surely someone in London makes them. After all, we want this to be the most talked about event of the Season.”

Mr. Tate, sitting across from them, managed a wan smile before turning his attention to the passing fields and hedges. Poor fellow. He couldn’t afford what Priscilla needed to secure her an advantageous marriage, but if Priscilla didn’t marry a wealthy gentleman, her father would have no money at all. Emily was glad His Grace had not put her in that position.

Of course, if he insisted on her marrying Lord Robert, that would be something else entirely. She reached for her locket, stroking the gold with her fingers.

And looked back once more. What if Lord Robert came pounding up on a black stallion and demanded her surrender? She couldn’t relax until she’d spoken to His Grace and knew her plans were safe. And she couldn’t quite attend to the plans for the wondrous ball until she’d figured out some way to show her paintings to Lady St. Gregory.

Lady St. Gregory was the president of the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts, the one trusted by the queen to enlist new members. She sculpted in marble. Ariadne had read them an account of the lady’s most recent work just a month ago.

“A triumph of movement and emotion,”
The Times
had said.

Surely Lady St. Gregory would see the triumph in Emily’s work, even if Miss Martingale couldn’t.

Emily wasn’t sure whether it was the heady tang of turpentine or the feathery touch of a brush that first seduced her to the arts, but she was generally happiest at an easel. She often remembered the look on her beloved art teacher’s face when Miss Alexander had seen Emily’s
The Battle of Hastings
. In it, William the Conqueror stood high on a hill, banner waving in the breeze, while strung out around him, as far as the eye could see, lay the bodies of fallen Saxons. It had taken Emily all term to paint. Miss Alexander had gazed at it, dark eyes wide, and said, “Oh, Lady Emily, this is very, very good.”

If only Lady St. Gregory would agree!

“I’m so glad we’re having the ball,” Priscilla said beside her, “rather than that little dinner Daphne and Ariadne’s mother has planned for them. I’ve already had two hundred acceptances of the three hundred invitations that were sent, and we still have nine days to go. Even your Lady St. Gregory accepted,” she added, as if sensing Emily’s distraction.

That was it! Emily stared at her. “Oh, Pris, now I’ve had a vision. If I exhibited a painting at the ball, Lady St. Gregory would have to recognize me!”

Priscilla’s eyes widened in obvious horror. “No, no, no. You cannot turn the ball into an art exhibition.”

“What else can I do?” Emily asked. “His Grace is too busy to help me. His aunt, who was supposed to be my chaperone, is up in Cumbria helping my sister and Cousin Charles prepare for their first baby, and who knows when the child will arrive. I’ll be lucky if I can leave the house until His Grace finds a replacement. The ball could be my only chance to gain Lady St. Gregory’s attention!”

Priscilla grit her teeth, then raised a finger. “All right, you may display one, exactly one, painting at the ball. Perhaps I can persuade the orchestra to suffer it behind them on the platform.”

That would never do. Lady St. Gregory might not even notice it. “No, Pris, if we do this, it must be up front.”

Priscilla pressed her lips together as if she were trying to keep from saying something vile. Emily couldn’t blame her for being vexed. Priscilla had inordinately high hopes for this ball. Like Emily, she might get only one chance to impress.

“Oh, as you wish,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “I’ll put it up front and surround it with a rose trellis. That should give it pride of place. But no battle scenes!”

Emily frowned. What did Priscilla expect, watercolor bowls of fruit? Not likely. Emily used oils, bold strokes, dark colors; she brought to life important subjects like the tragic deaths of heroes and glorious, blood-drenched battles. Her scenes were so real, she fancied she felt the beat of the drummer calling the march, heard the roar of canons in the distance. When she painted, she quite forgot that any other world existed.

“I’ll try for something in keeping with the theme,” she said. After all, there had been a War of the Roses, hadn’t there?

Priscilla looked skeptical, but Emily turned to look back again. That problem had been solved, but what if Lord Robert reached London before them? What if he spoke to His Grace, her father, before she did?

No, she shouldn’t worry. Ariadne had said Lord Robert’s mother was with him, so he wouldn’t rush. He’d told Miss Martingale they’d been visiting in the area and heard Emily required escort. What humbug. With His Grace just returned, she’d planned to ride home with Priscilla all along; her things had been packed and waiting for the Tate carriage.

Which simply did not travel fast enough.

Emily could not remain in her seat by the time they rolled into London the next evening, joining Priscilla in pressing her nose against the glass of the carriage window to stare at the Great City. Massive stone buildings soared into the air, blocking the darkening sky. One set was gracefully classical, another heavy and pompous, a third sprawling in all directions surrounded by ornate columns. In the crowded cobblestone squares, hawkers called for violets, penny-a-sheet newspapers, roasted nuts. Everywhere was noise, movement, color. Emily’s fingers trembled, and she wished she had her sketch book.

The Emerson family town house in the Mayfair district was just as impressive, at three stories tall. She’d never been there, but she approved of the elegant sweep of stone, the bright gleam of brass on the red-lacquered door. Mr. Tate assisted her down as footmen in dark coats and breeches hurried out to bring in her trunks and boxes.