Second Season (9 page)

“So he was, but he got Brummell to take his place in order to be free to ask you.”

“Was that it? But I think you must be mistaken, Sharlie, for he never so much as looked from the door throughout the dance,” Emily said doubtfully, “and
I
think Mr. Brummell must have wished to dance with you, for it appears he never does anything upon request unless he likes.”

Lady Stanwood was of Emily’s opinion, and while at a loss to account for Mr. Brummel’s condescension, she was inwardly near-faint with excitement. More worldly-wise than her daughters, she knew the Beau’s approbation would establish Charlotte more securely than Emily
—and what of it?
Lady Stanwood asked herself. Emily was a full year too young to be fixing her heart, only here at all in order to prevent unwise entanglements. Let her enjoy herself while Charlotte was settled, and let Emily have a second season when she would be better able to select what she wanted.

Lost in delightful dreams of Charlotte’s future, Lady Stanwood did not fail to note the departure of Mr. Brummell—without a word, let alone a dance, with any other young lady. She was so flown, indeed, as to convert Lord Stanwood’s mild recollection of their own youth into an invitation to join the sets forming for the supper dance—much to his astonishment. “I was only saying you’ve no need of me, milady, and I’d be off to Brooks’, but damme, why not a dance? I’ll warrant none of ’em are as accomplished as yourself, Nelly. We’ll make our own set and show the youngsters the way, eh?”

Thus it was that on the occasion ever afterwards known as “The Stanwood’s Night,” a set for the supper dance was composed of: Lord and Lady Stanwood, Miss Stanwood with the Duke of Imbrie, Lord and Lady Sefton, Sir Geoffrey Stanwood with Princess Esterhazy, Miss Emily with Sir Eustace Gayle, Lord and Lady Jersey.

Mrs. Drummond Burrell was not solicited to join.

Everything changed after that evening, and for all her professed disdain of Society, Sharlie admitted to herself it was very different when one was
in
it rather than a wallflower. To Emily, who had been the belle of the countryside for two years, a London triumph was new only in that here her beaux were of the
haut ton.
Otherwise, London was the same as Stanbury, merely more so.

For Charlotte, to be flattered and courted was breath-taking, although she was at a loss how to behave. “What do you do when a beau says your eyes are the color of sunlit sea-water and he drowns in them?” she asked Emily in bewilderment. “Or presses your hand with a languishing smile?”

Emily trilled with laughter. She loved Sharlie dearly, was awed by her mental superiority. From childhood custom, she always did what Sharlie told her to, but here Emily was on familiar ground. “Silly!” she said affectionately. “You look
up
—so ... and you look
down
—so ... and draw back with a blush, if you can manage it.”

“It’s getting easier,” Sharlie remarked a bit grimly. “The thing is that I never was a belle, and agreeable as it is, a lot of it seems absurd. I can’t believe high-flown words about my appearance when we both know I’m no beauty.”

Emily eyed her sister with a curious little smile, “but you are. At least, Geoffrey was right: you’re elegant, Sharlie. You have a way of walking, of holding your shoulders, of extending your hand. Imbrie says you have the only straight back in London and your curtsey is the essence of grace.”

“Did he say so?” Sharlie’s cheeks went pink with pleasure, for the duke’s continued presence in town was most
promising.
He never failed to beg a dance with Emily, sent lavish nosegays upon all occasions, and had hosted a superb small gathering for supper at Vauxhall upon learning that she yearned to visit the Gardens. Sharlie did not depend upon an offer; a premier duke would not lightly drop his handkerchief, but if given the chance to observe, Sharlie felt her sister’s beauty and sweetness would certainly win him. That it was she who actually saw the most of his
grace escaped Charlotte entirely. As Lady Stanwood had prophesied, Sharlie was riding at least once, often twice a day. Every morning she went for a turn in the Park, until by now the exercise grooms cleared aside, grinning, to allow her a full gallop with John lolloping behind. It was tacitly understood that Sir Eustace was welcome to join her on these occasions, and he turned up so constantly that he was swiftly considered Miss Stanwood’s preference. On closer acquaintance, she continued to find him delightful. His compliments were outrageously extravagant, but with an irresistible twinkle that invited her to laugh at him. Yet there was also an honest simplicity that was much to her taste, and they were soon on the easiest terms.

“Faith, and ye must have a groom, Miss Stanwood,” he grinned wickedly. “Ye’re far too pretty to be trusted to a wild Irishman who’s all to pieces. I’ve not a feather to fly with, for there’s no money at all, at all. My father’d a weakness for deep basset, and no head for it, poor man. When the apoplexy carried him off, all was found so encumbered that m’brother is hard pressed. My mother’s her jointure, but there’s five sisters to be married off with nothing for dowries.”

Privately, Sharlie thought that if his looks ran in the family, there’d be no trouble in disposing of the girls, but she was deeply impressed by Sir Eustace’s cheerful admission of poverty. “I’ve no brains, y’know. The best I can do is remove myself and leave Henry a free hand.”

To Charlotte’s rallying suggestion of a rich wife, he shook his head with decision. “I’ll have no woman without something more than a portion to keep me in comfort. ’Tis not fair to a lass to wed where the heart cannot be given. Besides, I’d not sell out until we’ve finished Boney.”

“Will we do it?”

“Devil a doubt of it! We’ve Wellington, y’know The Army suited him excellently, he was half-minded to make a career of it, “for I’ve no expectations. Mr. Cleghorne, my godfather, is said to be plump in the pocket, but the most he ever did was to buy me a pair of colors five years ago.” Sir Eustace laughed infectiously. “He’s no opinion of me at all, at all. M’mother would have me visit him when I was coming to London, I think she’s
hoping
—but it won’t answer, I can tell that. Nothing pleased him, from the cut of my whiskers to my batman leading the luggage horse, and when I recounted our engagements ... Talavera, Fuentes de Onoro, Albuera and Ciudad Rodrigo...” he chuckled, “Mr. Cleghorne was astounded.”

“He said he couldn’t believe Wellington was winning, when he had
me
on his side.”

“What a—a wicked thing to say, when you might have been killed!”

“Oh, aye, but he had the gout, you know,” Sir Eustace said good-humoredly. “When I came away, he sent the butler for his strong box and gave me fifty guineas. That was damned handsome, you know.”

Charlotte thought it a paltry sum to one who was risking his life in keeping Bonaparte out of England, and when she imparted the story to Emily, her sister was even more indignant. “Gout or not, the man’s an old curmudgeon!”

The morning gallops made Sir Eustace a cornerstone of what was coming to be known as the Stanwood Court. His initial lack of acquaintance was quickly remedied. A handsome young man who danced well and was well-connected, even if known to be penniless, nevertheless was an asset to any hostess. Captain Sir Eustace Gayle was rapidly on all invitation lists, but his loyalty to the Misses Stanwood was steadfast: he went where they went, and divided his attentions between the sisters most gracefully. Shortly, he was
persona grata
at No. 10 Park Street for conversation with anyone who was at home—it mattered not who. If the girls were out, he was happy to drink tea with Lady Stanwood ... or walk companionably to a club with Lord Stanwood ... or wait in the salon if any family members were shortly expected by Beamish.

He was, in fact, as much at home as Geoffrey and treated very similarly by staff and Stanwoods alike. All were disarmed by his frankness, for although offered entree to Alfred’s and the Cocoa Tree by his lordship, Sir Eustace smilingly confessed he could not afford the play and would only watch. Lady Stanwood was equally undermined by his delight in being asked to potluck, “for it is good to be within a family, not that Aunt Sophy—Mrs. Ixton—is not all that is kind, but there are no young people. It is only herself and her husband.”

A second cornerstone was the Duke of Imbrie, although his status was still formal as befitted his title. Lady Stanwood would not have dreamed of asking his grace to stay for dinner on five minutes’ notice. Nevertheless, he was adopting habits of informality, of stopping unexpectedly to inquire if Miss Stanwood or Miss Emily cared for a turn about the Park—or he had an errand in Bond Street, did either of the young ladies wish to visit Hookham’s lending library?

Since it was Emily who had a fondness for novels and who held firmly to her resolve not to ride but to promenade in a vehicle, Charlotte felt certain of the real object. She thought him a bit arrogant in not dispatching a note to ascertain Emily’s freedom for an engagement—after all, they were only one street
apart, and
on several occasions he had but
just
missed Emily.

“What a pity you did not think to send word,” she exclaimed, “for Emily has only gone to Lady Kilmartin’s with mama. She might easily have excused herself, it is no more than a casual call before the Promenade.”

The duke would not hear of sending John-groom post-haste to intercept Lady Stanwood’s coach. “No, no, I am persuaded Miss Emily would find Richmond Park a dead bore in contrast to a comfortable coze with her friends—but you do not go with them, Miss Stanwood. You have another engagement?”

“No, I meant merely to ride until I encountered our coach and returned with them for tea.”

“Ah? Then perhaps you would companion me instead? I purchased a pair of greys yesterday, and am anxious to try their paces.”

Nothing was a greater inducement to Miss Stanwood! She sped upstairs, changed to a driving dress and was back almost before the duke had time to sit down. To one who was accustomed to the length of ladies’ toilettes, such promptness was most engaging. Her appearance was equally engaging. A dress of leaf-green was completed by a close hat of matching straw that framed her smiling face and emphasized the green of her eyes. Gloves of lemon yellow kid and a frilled parasol with a very long handle were the finishing touch.

Handing her down the steps, his grace was amused by her comments on his horses and the high-perch phaeton. By the time he’d returned her to Park Street, he was even more amused.

“Do you go to Almack’s tonight, milord?”

“If you will promise me all the waltzes.”

“Who will you get to substitute when you are bored tonight, I wonder?” Sharlie chuckled faintly. “I must say you’ve set an impossibly high standard with Mr. Brummell.”

“Not I, but the Beau. He insisted on the exchange—and you have never bored me, Miss Stanwood.”

She colored and looked away in confusion. “You’re bamming ... I mean,” she corrected hastily, “laughing at me, Duke.”

“No, ’pon rep.”

That Charlotte did not believe him was clear. She smiled politely and changed the subject. “We attended the service at the Chapel Royal on Sunday. Emily was presented to the Duke of Clarence, at his particular request,” she announced proudly. “He stood talking to her for quite five minutes, and said she wore a vastly fetching hat; must be the despair of every woman in London!”

“Not of yourself, surely.”

“No, of course not! Nothing could be more satisfying than her success. It makes up for EVERYTHING,” Sharlie said darkly, and giggled. “I do not scruple to tell you, Duke, for you must well know it: last year I was totally ignored, a positive antidote. No one looked at me twice, except to make sure he could retreat at once. I had not the least notion how to go on, you see, but this year—I have only to watch Emily. It all comes so instinctively to her, as though she were born for exalted society. Her beauty, her accomplishments, her sweet manners, make her so uniformly pleasing as to confound my insipidity ... plus,” Charlotte laughed archly, “a great many crumbs fall to my share, such as today.”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, startled.

“You are not the only gentleman who, upon failing to gain a dance, a drive, an adjoining chair to my sister, is sufficiently courteous to solicit me instead,” she smiled, “but today I am very glad of it, despite your disappointment. Forgive me, but my sister becomes nervous in sporting carriages. She is not at ease with horses. It is entirely different in the country, where there is nothing to alarm them. At Stanbury she rides frequently, but the press of London traffic upsets her.”

“I’d gathered as much, but it holds no terror for yourself?”

“Only when there is a snarl caused by a whipster. Then I am not so much frightened as
furious
at the beaux who set up their carriages with no ability to handle the ribbons; merely to be in the mode,” she said scornfully, “and they endanger everyone else.”

“Very true. Do you drive, Miss Stanwood?”

“No,” she sighed. “Geoffrey—my brother—once promised to teach me, but he has been at Oxford, you know, and there was not the opportunity. Besides, papa said he could not afford to replace Geoff’s curricle if I smashed it—which was
most
unjust,” Sharlie’s brow contracted, “for Geoffrey came to splinters himself over some foolish wager.”