A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories Page 11

  Deep in thought, Lucilla nodded. “It seems strategically imperative—if she’s not out, she cannot be present at the rush of balls and parties which, as dear Emily pointed out, are this year going to precede the usual commencement.” Lucilla pulled a face. “Yet it’s not the sort of decision one takes lightly.” She pondered a moment, one elegant fingernail tapping on the chair arm. Then she straightened. “We have Lady Allingcott’s at-home this afternoon and Lady Chessington’s little party tonight, then Almack’s tomorrow—even they have started early this year. I pray you both to keep your ears open. Depending on what we all hear, I think we might start with an impromptu party, just for the younger folk, next week. And plan Clarissa’s ball for the week after that. My ideas are already well advanced; it will simply be a matter of bringing them forward a trifle.” Nodding to herself, Lucilla turned to Clarissa. “What say you to that, my dear?”

  “It sounds wonderful!” Clarissa’s eyes radiated excited relief. “Indeed, I wasn’t looking forward to missing the balls in the next weeks.”

  “And why should you?” Lucilla spread her hands wide. “This is your Season, my love; you’re here to enjoy it.” She smiled her subtlest smile. “As Madame Jorge said; we will contrive.”

  Sophie had nothing to say against her aunt’s plans. Mr. Lester, of course, would not be present at the small, informal parties and dances held by the families with young girls making their come-out, to help the young ladies gain their social feet. Until Clarissa was officially out, the Webb ladies would be restricted to such tame affairs, which were all very well if there was nothing else on offer. But this year, this Season, was going to be different—and it wasn’t only the weather that would make it so for her.

  They attended Lady Allingcott’s and Lady Chessington’s entertainments, and on Wednesday called on Lady Hartford and the Misses Smythe, then danced at Almack’s, all the while listening to what their peers had to say of projected entertainments.

  Over breakfast the next morning, Lucilla called a council of war. “Now pay attention, Sophie.”

  Thus adjured, Sophie blinked. And endeavored to obey the injunction.

  “I’ve consulted with your father, Clarissa, and he’s in full agreement. We will hold your come-out ball at the end of the week after next.”

  Clarissa crowed. Her younger brothers pulled faces and taunted.

  “In the meantime, however,” Lucilla raised her voice only slightly; as her eagle eye swept the table the din subsided. “We’ll hold a dance at the end of next week—on Friday. An informal affair—but we need not restrict the guest list solely to those making their come-out. I see no reason not to invite some of those amongst the ton with whom you are already acquainted.”

  Sophie knew her smile was almost as bright as Clarissa’s. Her aunt’s gaze, pausing meaningfully on her, sent her heart soaring. Ridiculous—but there was no other word for it—the exhilarating excitement that gripped her at the mere thought of seeing him again. She lived for the moment but, given he had not appeared at Almack’s—faint hope though that had been—it had seemed likely they would not meet again until Clarissa was out and they could move freely in society’s mainstream.

  Unless, of course, he called to take her driving again.

  She spent all morning with one ear tuned to the knocker. When the time for luncheon arrived and he had not called, she put her disappointment aside and, her smile still bright, descended to the dining-room. She was determined none of her cousins would guess her true state. As for her aunt, she had directed one or two pointed glances at her niece and once, she had surprised a look of soft satisfaction upon Lucilla’s face. That, of course, was inevitable.

  It was at Mrs. Morgan-Stanley’s at-home later that day that her bubble of happiness was punctured.

  On entering the Morgan-Stanleys’ large drawing-room, Lucilla immediately joined the circle of fashionable matrons gathered about the fireplace. Clarissa drifted across to the windows, to where the youngest of those present had shyly retreated to trade dreams. With a confident smile, Sophie joined a small group of young ladies for whom this was not their first Season. She was taking tea with them in their corner when, in the midst of a discussion on the many notables already sighted in town, Miss Billingham, a thin young lady with severe, pinched features, cast her an arch glance.

  “Indeed! Miss Winterton, I fancy, can testify to the fact. Why, we saw you in the Park just the other morning, my dear, driving with Mr. Lester.”

  “Mr. Lester?” Miss Chessington, a bright, cheerful soul, short, good-natured and of an indefatigably sunny temperament, blinked in amazement. “But I thought he never drove mere females.”

  “Not previously,” Miss Billingham conceded with the air of one who had made a thorough study of the matter and was unshakeably certain of her facts. “But it’s clear he has, at last, realized he must change his ways. My mama commented on the point, even last Season.” When the others, Sophie included, looked their question, Miss Billingham consented to explain. “Well, it’s common knowledge that he must marry well. More than well—real money—for there are his brothers, too, and everyone knows the Lesters have barely a penny to bless themselves with. Good breeding, good estates—it’s the blunt that’s wanting.”

  Sophie was not the only one who blinked at the crude term and the hard gleam in Miss Billingham’s eyes but, in her case, the action was purely reflex. Her mind was reeling; a horrible sinking feeling had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her features froze in a polite mask, and a sudden chill swept through her.

  “My mama has long maintained,” Miss Billingham declaimed, “that he’d have to come about. Too high in the instep by half, he spent all last Season searching for some goddess. Likely he’s come to the understanding that he cannot look so high.”

  Miss Billingham looked at Sophie. The others, following her lead, did the same. Caught on a welling tide of despair, Sophie did not notice.

  “I suppose, it being so early in the Season, he thought to amuse himself—get his hand in at the practice in safety, so to speak—by squiring you about, Miss Winterton.”

  It was the rustling of skirts as the others drew back, distancing themselves from the snide remark, that shook Sophie from her trance. As Miss Billingham’s words registered, she felt herself pale. A cattish gleam of satisfaction flared in Miss Billingham’s eyes. Pride came to Sophie’s rescue, stiffening her spine. She drew in a steadying breath, then lifted her chin, looking down at Miss Billingham with chilly hauteur. “I dare say, Miss Billingham.” Her tone repressively cool, Sophie continued, “I can only assume that Mr. Lester could find no other to suit his purpose, for, as you say, I hardly qualify as a rich prize.”

  At first, Miss Billingham missed the allusion; the poorly suppressed grins of the other young ladies finally brought Sophie’s words home. Slowly, Miss Billingham’s sallow complexion turned beet-red, an unhappy sight. She opened her mouth, casting a glance around for support. As she found none, her colour deepened. With a few muted words, she excused herself to return to the safer precincts close by her mother, a woman of battleship proportions.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Miss Chessington advised as their little circle closed comfortably about Sophie. “She’s just furious Jack Lester paid her no heed whatever last year. Set her cap at him, and fell flat on her face.”

  Valiantly, Sophie struggled to return Miss Chessington’s bright smile. “Indeed. But what of your hopes? Do you have anyone in your sights?”

  Belle Chessington grinned hugely. “Heavens, no! I’m determined to enjoy myself. All that bother about a husband can come later.”

  Reflecting that, a few months ago, she, too, would have been as carefree, Sophie dragged her thoughts away from what had focused her mind on marriage. She clung to Miss Chessington’s buoyant spirits until it was time to depart.

  Once enveloped in the quiet of her aunt’s carriage, cool reason returned to hold back the misery that threatened to engulf her. Sophie closed he
r eyes and laid her head back on the squabs.

  “Aren’t you feeling quite the thing, my dear?”

  Lucilla’s calm voice interrupted Sophie’s thoughts. Sophie tried to smile, but the result was more like a grimace. “Just a slight headache. I found Mrs. Morgan-Stanley’s drawing-room a trifle close.” It was the best she could do. To her relief, her aunt seemed to accept the weak excuse.

  Lucilla reached over and patted her hand. “Well, do take care. I hope you’ll both remember that one never appears to advantage while a martyr to ill health.” After a moment, Lucilla mused, “I don’t think our schedule is overly full, but if you do feel the need, you must both promise me you’ll rest.”

  Together with Clarissa, Sophie murmured her reassurances.

  As the carriage rolled steadily onward, she kept her eyes closed, hiding her frown. Despite her often outrageous machinations, Lucilla was ever supportive, always protective. If Jack Lester was, indeed, totally ineligible as a suitor for her hand—or, more specifically, if, as a mere lady of expectations, she was ineligible to be his bride, then Lucilla would not have allowed him to draw so close. Her aunt was as clever as she could hold together. Surely she could trust in Lucilla’s perspicacity?

  Perhaps Miss Billingham had it wrong?

  That possibility allowed Sophie to meet the rest of her day with equanimity, if not outright enthusiasm. Until the evening, when Lady Orville’s little musical gathering brought an end to all hope.

  It was, most incongruously, old Lady Matcham who squashed the bubble of her happiness flat. A tiny little woman, white-haired and silver-eyed with age, her ladyship was a kindly soul who would never, Sophie knew, intentionally cause anyone harm.

  “I know you won’t mind me mentioning this, Sophia, my dear. You know how very close I was to your mother—well, she was almost a daughter to me, you know. So sad, her going.” The old eyes filled with tears. Lady Matcham dabbed them away with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Silly of me, of course.” She smiled with determined brightness up at Sophie, sitting beside her on a chaise along the back wall of the music room.

  Before them, the very select few whom Lady Orville had invited to air their musical abilities along with her two daughters were entertaining the gathering, seated in rows of little chairs before the pianoforte. Now, to the sound of polite applause, Miss Chessington took her seat at the instrument and laid her hands upon the keys.

  Expecting a comment on the colour of her ribbons, or something in similar vein, Sophie smiled reassuringly at Lady Matcham, returning the squeeze of one birdlike claw.

  “But that’s why I feel I have to say something, Sophia,” Lady Matcham continued. “For I would not rest easy thinking you had got hurt when I could have prevented it.”

  An icy hand closed about Sophie’s heart, all expression leached from her face. Numb, paralyzed, she gazed blankly at Lady Matcham.

  “I must say,” her ladyship went on, her washed-out eyes widening, “I had thought Lucilla would have warned you but, no doubt, having only just returned to the capital, she’s not yet up with the latest.”

  The chill creeping through Sophie had reached her mind; she couldn’t think how to interrupt. She didn’t want to hear any more, but her ladyship pressed on, her soft, gentle, undeniably earnest tones a death-knell to all hope.

  “It’s about Mr. Lester, my dear. Such a handsome man—quite the gentleman and so very well-connected. But he needs a rich wife. A very rich wife. I know, for I am acquainted with his aunt, dear soul—she’s passed on now. But it was always understood the Lester boys would have to marry money, as the saying goes.” Lady Matcham’s sweet face grimaced with distaste. “Such a disheartening thought.”

  Sophie could only agree. Her heart was a painful lump in her breast; her features felt frozen. She couldn’t speak; she could only gaze blankly as Lady Matcham lifted her wise old eyes to her face.

  Lady Matcham patted her hand. “I saw you in the Park, in his curricle. And I just had to say something, my dear, for it really won’t do. I dare say he’s everything a gal like you might wish for. But indeed, Sophia dear, he’s not for you.”

  Sophie blinked rapidly and sucked in a quick breath. Her heart was aching; all of her hurt. But she could not give way to her pain in the middle of Miss Chessington’s sonata. Sophie swallowed; with an effort, she summoned a weak smile. “Thank you for the warning, ma’am.” She couldn’t trust herself to say more.

  Her ladyship patted her hand, blinking herself. “There, there. It’s not the end of the world, although I know it may feel that way. Such unfortunate happenings are best nipped in the bud—before any lasting damage can be done. I know you’re too wise, my dear, not to know that—and to know how to go on. Why, you’ve all the Season before you. Plenty of opportunity to find a gentleman who suits you.”

  Sophie would have given the earth to deny it, all of it, but nothing could gainsay the sincerity in Lady Matcham’s old eyes. With a wavering smile, Sophie gave the old lady a brief hug, then, with a mute nod, rose. Dragging in a steadying breath, she drifted to a corner of the room.

  By dint of sheer will-power, she did not allow herself to dwell on Lady Matcham’s revelations until, together with her aunt and Clarissa, she was enclosed in the protective shadows of the carriage and bound for home.

  Then misery engulfed her, tinged with black despair.

  As they alighted in Mount Street, the light from a street flare fell full on her face. Lucilla glanced around; her eyes narrowed. “Sophie, you will lie in tomorrow. I will not have you coming down with any ailment at this time of year.”

  Fleetingly, Sophie met her aunt’s gaze, sharp and concerned. “Yes, Aunt,” she acquiesced, meekly looking down. Ignoring Clarissa’s concerned and questioning glance, Sophie followed her aunt up the steps.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY dawned but brought with it no relief. From behind the lace curtain at her bedchamber window, Sophie watched as Jack Lester descended the steps to the street. He climbed up into his waiting curricle and, as his groom scrambled up behind, deftly flicked his whip and drove away. Sophie watched until he disappeared around the corner, then, heaving a heavy sigh, turned back into the room.

  He had called to take her for a drive, only to be met with the news of her indisposition.

  Sophie sniffed. Aimless, she drifted across the room towards her bed, her sodden handkerchief wadded in her fist. As she passed her dressing-table, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her cheeks were wan, her lips dry. Her head felt woosy and throbbed uncomfortably; her limbs seemed heavy, listless.

  Lady Matcham’s warning had come too late. In the dark hours of the night, she had faced the dismal fact: the delicate bud rooted in her heart, influenced by the weather and the warmth of his smile, had already flowered. Now it lay crushed, slain by the weight of circumstance. Soon, she supposed, it would wither.

  She was not a wealthy catch, a bride who would bring as her dower the ready cash necessary to rescue a gentleman’s estates. Nothing could change that cold, hard fact. She was her father’s heiress, a lady of expectations, possessed of no more than moderate fortune, and even that was prospective, not immediately accessible as capital.

  Sophie sniffed again, then determinedly blew her nose. She had spent too much of the night weeping, not an occupation she had had much experience of, not since her mother’s death. Now, she felt emptied, desolate, as she had then. But she knew she would recover. She would allow herself one day in which to mope, and by tonight, she would be back on her feet, her smile bright. As the Season unfolded, she would devote herself to her search for a husband with all due diligence. And forget about a handsome rake with dark blue eyes.

  That was the way things were in her world; she knew it well enough. And after all Lucilla’s and Clarissa’s kindnesses, she would not allow her unhappiness to cloud Clarissa’s Season. She would do her best to ensure it did not sink her own, either.

  Feeling oddly better to hav
e such clear goals before her, Sophie perched on the end of her bed. Her fingers pulled at her wrinkled handkerchief; her gaze grew abstracted. There was one point she had yet to consider: how best to deal with him when they met, as, inevitably, they would.

  After deep and lengthy cogitation, she had absolved him of all blame. She could not believe he had sought to cause her pain. She it was who had misread his purpose; she was, in reality, no more experienced in such matters than Clarissa. It was, very likely, as Miss Billingham had said—to him, she was a safe and agreeable companion, one with whom to pass the time until the Season was fully under way and he could set about choosing his bride. Indeed, Lady Matcham’s observations left little room for any other interpretation.

  There were, admittedly, his curious words when he had last left her. The time is not yet. She had thought he had meant.... Abruptly, Sophie cut off the thought, setting her teeth against the pain. What he had probably meant was to propose some outing, some excursion which their present early stage of friendship would not stretch to encompass. She had read more—much more—into his innocent words than he could ever have intended.

  Which meant that, given his innocence, she would have to treat him as if nothing was wrong. Pride dictated she do so. Any awkwardness she felt must be suppressed, hidden, for she couldn’t bear him to know what she had thought—hoped.

  Somehow, she would cope. Like Madame Jorge, like Lucilla, she could contrive.

  With a sigh, Sophie climbed onto her bed and tugged the covers over her. She snuggled down, settling her head on the pillows; calmly determined, she closed her eyes. She forced herself to relax, to allow the furrows in her forehead to ease away. If she was going to contrive, she would need some sleep.

  The days ahead would not be easy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVEN PICCADILLY WAS CROWDED. Jack frowned as, leaving the shady avenues of the Park behind him, he was forced to rein in his horses by the press of traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, that thronged the wide street. Manoeuvring his curricle into the flow, he sat back, resigned to the crawling pace. To his right, Green Park luxuriated in the unseasonable heat, green buds unfurling as the fashionable strolled its gentle paths. Its calm beckoned, but Jack ignored it. The clamour of the traffic more suited his mood.