Lady for a Season (Regency Outsiders)

Chapter 7 Almack’s

A lthough they had returned in time for Edward to take his place in Parliament, on the first of March he was back at Atherton House within two hours of leaving.

“The Prince Regent asked for Parliament’s opening to be delayed until the twenty-first,” he said. “And it was agreed. So there will be nothing to do for three weeks.”

“You mean there will be extra time for social calls, picnics and pleasure gardens, and the men will all be expected to attend,” said Maggie wryly.

“You have learnt the ways of the ton far too well, I think.”

“A pile of invitations has been delivered,” she said. “Your mother has been sifting through them, picking and choosing what she thinks are the best occasions at which to show our faces and finery.”

Edward nodded but remained silent. Maggie contemplated the ticking clock the Duchess had set in motion when she had said that there must be a wedding before the season was done. It was March. There were fewer than five months left, for although parliament would officially conclude on the thirtieth of July, many families would begin to leave London earlier, during June, especially if the city grew too hot. Now that the days were growing longer the most intense twelve weeks of the season would commence, as every family sought to see and be seen, to conclude the season in a blaze of glory and avoid a whimpering failure.

“For tomorrow’s ball,” said Celine the next morning, looking through Maggie’s gowns, “I think perhaps the green?”

“We’ve just been to a ball,” protested Maggie.

Celine straightened up and looked at her, bemused. “I fear you do not understand what the true social season is like,” she said. “How many invitations do you think you will be accepting while we are here?”

“Perhaps one a week?” offered Maggie, already knowing the answer was wrong. “That is what we did during the autumn.”

Celine laughed. “At least two balls a week.”

“Well, that is not too bad,” said Maggie, relieved.

But Celine was not finished. “The theatre and opera two to three times a week. Perhaps a private dinner once a week, with family connections or where there might be a significant interest in His Grace from a family. Those are the evening appointments. During the day, you will call on other families or be called on, depending on Her Grace’s at home days. There will also be other daytime activities: picnics, luncheons, carriage rides and ices at Gunther’s. Riding or driving in Rotten Row on a daily basis. Then there will be pleasure gardens, not as frequently but from time to time. Church on Sundays.”

Maggie stared at her, heart sinking. It was too much. Edward had managed, with the odd struggle, the very limited events they had undertaken so far, she had been proud of him, but this sounded far too much for anyone to bear.

“There will be more than one social activity every day,” concluded Celine, as though Maggie might have missed this point. “And most evenings, you will not be home until well past midnight. You may lie in later than usual but of course you must still be up and ready to make or receive calls from midday onwards.”

“How does anyone manage it?” asked Maggie, aghast. “How will Edward manage it? He will be exhausted and…” She wanted to say frightened, but held her tongue, not wanting to diminish him in front of Celine, but Celine’s face was already showing a sad pity.

“I am sorry for His Grace,” she said, her voice quiet. “The season can be pleasant for those who enjoy social occasions, but for someone like His Grace I am sure it will be very taxing. Especially when he will be so much in demand.”

“Will he? Surely there will be plenty of other young men who are eligible for marriage?”

“He is a duke ,” said Celine. “There are fewer than thirty in the whole country. It is nearly as good as marrying a prince. And he is not only a duke, but also very rich, young and handsome, when most of the others are old or already married off, and a couple are not that rich because they are inveterate gamblers. Every lady in the ton with an unmarried daughter has His Grace at the top of their lists.”

“Does he get a say?” asked Maggie, the words tumbling out of her mouth. Anger rose up in her at the way Celine was speaking, as though Edward were a valuable horse up for sale, instead of a young man who had been unable as a boy to withstand a bullying father and had crumbled, before being shut away as a madman when, Maggie was certain, he was no such thing, though he might be unable to behave as the ton would like him to.

Celine looked down, as though Maggie had chastised her.

“I’m sorry,” said Maggie, touching her arm. “I know you are only speaking the truth of how things are. I just…”

Celine nodded, still silent. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet, as though she feared being overheard. “I am glad His Grace has you by his side.”

“But he won’t have me forever,” said Maggie. “As soon as he is married, I will be told to leave, and they will expect... so much of him. He is growing in strength, but I am not sure…” She trailed off, uncertain of what she was trying to say, only that she was fearful for Edward. So much was demanded of him, and she could see him trying to grow into the role he had never expected to take on, yet at the same time his mother believed him a lunatic, ready to shut him away again at a moment’s notice. And if he were married and shut away, his wife would have no choice but to keep up the same facade they were engaged in now, a pretence that all was well, a constant lie to the rest of the ton , year in year out. A lonely life for everyone involved and yet what was the alternative? For a moment she wondered if life in Ivy Cottage might be better for Edward. They had been happy enough when Doctor Morrison was not attending. Could Edward live there, or somewhere like it, without the doctor coming to administer treatments? Maggie would gladly live with him, care for him. There had been many happy days together at Ivy Cottage and even at Atherton Park when the Duchess was absent.

It was obvious that the Little Season had been just that, a pale imitation of what they must face. Every day except Sunday was filled with a schedule which was so busy that Maggie could not understand how anyone bore the endless social demands. They rose at ten and breakfasted, after which the Duchess would retire to her rooms where she would manage household affairs, speaking with the cook and housekeeper and writing letters. Edward and Maggie seized these opportunities to visit the horses, walk in the garden and generally avoid any social obligations, bracing themselves for what was to come. The so- called morning calls were conducted between two and four in the afternoon and were so formally short that they frequently visited three or four houses each day, staying for less than half an hour at each before taking the carriage to their next destination. All the houses were within the confines of or only a few minutes’ drive from Grosvenor Square. If they were not calling on someone, there was always some social occasion in which they were to partake, from visiting the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall to riding out with someone, or a picnic on the warmest days. Their only supposed respite was on Thursdays, the day the Duchess had determined to be her at home day, when they had instead to receive company for the two hours set aside for this purpose, making the same small talk repeatedly with each new guest. The weather, the delight of such-and-such a dinner or ball previously attended, varying degrees of simpering at Edward and heavy-handed mentions of a young woman’s accomplishments and keenness to settle down, then farewells, followed moments later by greeting new guests and the whole to be done again. Often, more than one set of visitors arrived simultaneously, which meant Edward had to try and split his attentions between several young women without causing offence by paying particularly marked attention to any one in particular.

A brief escape was possible at five, to walk or ride in Hyde Park, though this necessitated a change of clothing both before and afterwards. It also required constant nodding and bowing or curtseying to those they encountered and on the dreariest occasions an overly-keen mama and her daughter would hint so heavily to join them that they would spend the rest of the hour making yet more small talk, received with excessively rapt attention by the daughter.

A small dinner at home would lead on to a supper out or a ball, often not returning home till one or two in the morning. Maggie’s feet were constantly in pain from the dancing and the late nights took their toll; some days she could not rise early enough for breakfast. Although there was endless elegant food provided at many of the gatherings they attended, the restrictions on how she should eat – tiny mouthfuls and unending small talk – meant that often she went hungry until she could get home and ask Jane to bring her something simple: a bowl of soup with bread and butter or some cake and fruit.

During breakfast at the beginning of the second week in March, the Duchess was smug as she checked through a silver tray of cards, letters and invitations.

“Lady Jersey has been so good as to send vouchers, as I expected.”

Edward sighed.

“Vouchers?” asked Maggie.

“To Almack’s.”

No explanation was forthcoming, and Edward was looking unusually grim-faced, so Maggie waited until she could ask Celine.

“It is the most fashionable and sought-after invitation of the season,” she explained. “There is a ball every week for twelve weeks during the season, in some very grand rooms in King Street, just behind St James’ Square. You cannot get in unless you have been invited by one of the lady patronesses. There are seven and each week they hold a committee meeting to decide who will be invited. Everyone in the ton wants a voucher. Of course, Her Grace is very well connected and has a very eligible son to marry off this year. That is why the vouchers have been so readily sent. They will probably even be offered again, should it go well. Almack’s is the place to secure a high-quality marriage partner, because only the very best families with the most eligible sons and daughters will be admitted entrance. If her Grace did not have a son to marry off this year, it is possible she would not have received a voucher. But she has His Grace. And…” Celine stopped.

“And?”

“And since the ton think you are Her Grace’s niece, you are also considered a good marriage prospect.”

“How can they think that when they believe I am only an impoverished distant connection?”

“It is still a connection. There are wealthy families without titles who would think it very fine to be at all connected to a duke.”

Maggie shook her head. “It would be impossible, anyway. I am not who they think I am, and I can’t spend the rest of my life lying about it.”

Celine’s eyebrows went up. “You might find a rich husband. It is not nothing, do not dismiss it too quickly.”

“I am only here to make Edward feel safe,” said Maggie. “When he is married…”

“When he is married off, he may be put away again,” Celine said bluntly.

“And if he is, I will go with him if I can,” said Maggie. She leaned towards Celine, earnest. “Celine, if they send me away before the marriage, and afterwards he is locked away again, will you find a way to reach me and let me know where he is? I cannot bear to think of him without someone by his side to look after him.”

“You would spend all your life caring for him?”

“Yes.”

“There are others who could care for him.”

“I saw how he was when no-one around him cared.” Gaunt, afraid, poorly dressed, barely speaking. He had become almost unrecognisable since, filling out to a healthier weight, elegant in tailored clothing, his skin glowing, a new confidence showing itself, his smiles and laughter when they were alone. She did not want all of that to fade away again.

The much-feted Almack’s came as a disappointment to Maggie, despite the size of the ballroom, which was close to one hundred feet long, decorated in white and a pale straw-yellow, with blue drapery, large double-tiered crystal chandeliers and a gallery for the musicians. Adjoining the ballroom were an anteroom, a tea-room, and a card-room. But despite the vaunted exclusivity, the rooms felt very crowded and overly warm.

“Twisted Lady Jersey’s arm, I see.” Lady Honora appeared at Maggie’s side. “Hope you ate a good dinner before you came.”

“Why?’

“Worst food in London, Almack’s. Stale sandwiches, stingy on the ham. Watery lemonade, no alcohol and dry cake. Hardly appetising.”

Maggie choked back laughter at the way Lady Honora could humble even the most hallowed of institutions. “I did not know it was so poor. I did not eat before we came out.”

“Ah well, you’ll just have to starve. In future, should you be coming here again, tell your cook to send up a good pie beforehand and leave you a wedge for your return home.” She sighed and shook out her dance card, dangling from her wrist. “Here come the menfolk, brace yourself.”

Maggie’s dance card filled rapidly enough, and she watched as Edward dutifully made his way from one young woman to another, bowing and adding his name to various cards, though he looked sombre as he did so.

Lady Honora circulated before returning to Maggie. “His Grace in a bad mood tonight? Can’t be weary of the marriage mart already, surely? He’s barely started.”

“He is not fond of these larger gatherings,” Maggie said.

“Is anyone?” asked Lady Honora. “Here we go then, first dance. Tally-ho.”

The usual ballroom experience followed, although the crowded room gave less space than usual, despite its large dimensions. Maggie danced, but was concerned about Edward, who, even when dancing with a partner, seemed less and less happy.

“May I have this dance?”

Maggie looked up at a tall young man sporting a loud waistcoat. “I am so sorry, the next dance is taken… sir,” she finished, unsure of the man’s name. While many of the young women had apparently memorised every available man’s name and title, she frequently found herself uncertain.

“Radcliffe,” drawled the man. He took her fan from her hand and inspected it, raising one languorous eyebrow. “Frampton? Surely not. Man’s a bore. You’d do much better with me. Don’t you think, Frampton?”

Maggie followed his eyeline and saw that Robert Sinclair, the Earl of Frampton, had joined them in time to hear Lord Radcliffe both insult him and try to steal his dance partner.

“I am afraid my fan says otherwise, Lord Radcliffe,” she said sharply. “I have already given my word to Lord Frampton, and I do like to keep my word.” She turned away from him and gave her best curtsey to the Earl. “Lord Frampton. I believe you were about to escort me to the dance floor?”

The Earl offered her his arm and she took it readily, moving

away from Lord Radcliffe.

“I am sorry Lord Radcliffe was so rude,” she said gently, aware

of the tightness in the Earl’s body.

The Earl softened as they turned to face one another, and the dance began.

“He is not… as gentlemanly as he should be,” he managed, no doubt skimming over a variety of words he might have liked to use but considered inappropriate in front of a woman.

“He is not,” agreed Maggie with a smile. “We shall try to forget about him.”

The Earl smiled back and nodded, and when the dance was finished, he kissed her hand. “I hope to see more of you now that you are returned to London,” he said.

Maggie smiled, but had no chance to leave the floor, immediately being claimed by her next partner.

The girl with whom Edward was dancing was a slip of a thing, he could barely feel her, but he could hardly breathe, as though there was a great weight pressing against him. All around the edge of the ballroom were not just glittering jewels but the glittering eyes of the ton , the young women watching his every move, their experienced mamas calculating the odds of ensnaring him, their fathers mulling over his worth, so that the whole of the ballroom was like a net closing in on him, forcing him into something which felt wrong, though everyone around him insisted it was right and even he himself could not put his finger on what was wrong. What was wrong with choosing an amiable, suitable bride and growing to love her? What was wrong with following what everyone else had done for generations? It had worked well enough for everyone to continue along this path and yet there was a growing unease in him that had nothing to do with the clothing or the dance steps or the manners, all of which he was now accustomed to and even Maggie was managing well enough…

Maggie. He saw her dancing with Lord Frampton, a bright smile on her face which enhanced his feeling of unease, rather than calming him as the sight of her usually did.

The music ended and he barely managed a short bow to his partner before leaving her.

Air.

He needed air, he could not breathe, each breath in was a struggle, he… usually he would have wanted Maggie but now, he did not want to see her, only wanted to get out of this accursed place and find somewhere to be alone, regardless that his name was down for the next four dances and that he would be leaving his partners stranded. The music began again and now it seemed as though it were being played out of tune, the door to the street below seemed very far away…

Maggie scanned the room. Where was Edward?

“May I be so bold as to claim a second dance this evening?” began Lord Frampton, bowing low before her.

“No!” said Maggie too quickly. Edward. She must find Edward.

Lord Frampton looked startled.

“I mean – I do beg your pardon,” Maggie said, her voice cracking. “I am not quite feeling myself. The heat… I beg you will excuse me.”

“Allow me to accompany you to a quieter part of the room,” said Lord Frampton at once, holding out his arm.

She could not refuse, so she followed unwillingly, still craning her head, searching for Edward.

He led her to a quieter part of the room, where Miss Belmont and Lady Honora were standing.

“Ah, Lady Honora,” he said with relief. “May I leave Miss Seton with you for a few moments while I fetch her something to drink and an ice? The room is very warm.”

“Thank you,” managed Maggie, taking the seat he had indicated for her, still looking about her for a glimpse of Edward.

“You’re doing well,” said Lady Honora, watching him depart. “Known him since he was a baby. Make a decent husband, Frampton. Good heart.”

“I need to go outside,” gasped Maggie, struggling to her feet. She felt dizzy.

“You can’t go out there without a chaperone,” said Lady Honora. “That’s where the men are smoking.”

“I need to find Cousin Edward,” said Maggie. “He is – he was not feeling well, earlier.”

Lady Honora frowned at Maggie but nodded. “Alright,” she agreed. “I’ll stand by the door where I can keep an eye out for you. Nip out and have a quick look for Buckingham. If you can’t see him, or you have any trouble, just call.”

They made their way through the crowded ballroom and past the dining room, down the stairs and into the main foyer, where tall columns decorated at their tops as palm trees loomed over them.

“Be quick,” said Lady Honora. “Can’t be seen to be hanging around here.”

Maggie hovered in the doorway. Edward might simply have stepped outside for a few moments to collect himself, to have a rest from the endless social interactions in which he was obliged to take part. Outside were dozens of carriages awaiting their owners and, off to one side, a group of men smoking, but she could not see Edward among them. As he did not smoke it would have been unlikely anyway, but she had hoped he might have followed an acquaintance. She peered out into the darkness. There! Disappearing down a dark street, unmistakeably Edward’s figure, striding away. She opened her mouth to call to him, then realised she could not as it would bring immediate and unwanted attention. Nor could she run out of the building and follow him. She could only stand and watch as he disappeared, then turned and ran back inside.

“Did you find him?” asked Lady Honora.

Maggie wanted to confide in her but she could not risk any details spilling out by mistake so she only said, “He has gone home, I think, he must not be feeling himself.”

Lady Honora shrugged. “Rum lot, men,” she said. “Never understood them myself. Leave him to it. Better get back to the ballroom. We’ll have left a bunch of partners wondering where we got to.”

Maggie managed two more dances before she found the Duchess and whispered that Edward had left. The Duchess, a fixed smile on her face, swiftly bundled both of them into the waiting carriage and ordered the driver to take them home at once.

“You saw him leave?” she said.

“Yes. He went down a street close by.”

“Which one?”

Maggie pointed.

The Duchess’ lips thinned. “Gentlemen sometimes have… needs,” she managed at last. “We will say no more about this. I will let Lady Jersey know that you felt ill, and we had to retire for the evening, and that Edward accompanied us out of consideration.”

Maggie did not reply. Neither she nor the Duchess spoke again and when she reached her bedroom and had been prepared for the night by Jane, she turned her face into the pillow and wept.

Edward made his way blindly down the nearest street that would take him away from the group of men smoking and the various carriages and drivers hanging around the outside of Almack’s. His heart felt too fast in his chest, his breathing matching it, he could feel himself grow dizzy, for a moment he was afraid he would faint here, in the dark, where no-one would find him. The dark and the cool air were a relief from the noise, heat and lights of the ballroom, but he could not seem to slow his breathing. One hand to his chest, he leant against the wall, willing himself to stay upright.

“Good evening, my lord.”

A woman appeared opposite him from an open doorway, through which spilled a low light. She was dressed elegantly, except that her gown was so low-cut as to be entirely indecent.

“Good evening,” muttered Edward.

“Were you looking for someone?”

“No, thank you.”

The woman smiled and stepped away from the doorway, making her way over to Edward. Her lips were stained red and, although her hair was fair, her eyelashes were sooty-black. “Are you sure, my lord? Because most gentlemen on this street are looking for a… companion. Someone to spend time with, in a friendly manner.”

He knew what she was; some of the young men at his club Boodles had talked of visiting such a woman. A few had invited him along to one of their favourite haunts, but he had always said no. If he had not been locked up in Ivy Cottage there would, no doubt, have been an occasion or two when he would have been taken to a woman like this to complete his education as a young nobleman. Visiting these establishments would have been part of his life, but he had shied away from his acquaintances’ suggestions, uncomfortable with their winking invitations.

“I was just looking for some quiet.”

The woman moved closer. “Oh, I understand, my lord, I do. It can be very demanding, Almack’s, for a young gentleman. All those mamas, all their pushy daughters simpering, maybe your parents nagging at you to hurry up and be wed. But there is plenty of time for all of that. Sometimes all a gentleman wants is a little peace and quiet, a place to lay his head and leave his cares behind him.”

Edward nodded. She described it so accurately.

She rested a hand on his arm. “I have a quiet room inside,” she murmured. “You will be undisturbed. Perhaps a rest and a nightcap are all you need to gather your thoughts, my lord?”

He hesitated and her smile broadened. Her hand slipped down his arm and clasped his hand. “Come,” she said.

He stared at her, then breathed, “Maggie.”

Her eyebrows raised for only a moment before she smiled more widely. “I can be your Maggie,” she agreed. “Will you tell me your name?”

But Edward pulled his hand sharply away and strode so fast down the street that he was gone before the prostitute, startled, could call him back.

His heart was beating so hard he could almost hear it. Not from the encounter with the prostitute but from a sudden realisation.

Maggie.

He loved Maggie.

He desired Maggie.

It had been the touch of the woman’s hand. Until now, his hand had only ever been clasped with warmth and affection by Maggie and, in that moment, he had understood why Almack’s had made him feel ill when he had attended enough balls by now to have grown used to them. The sight of Maggie smiling in Lord Frampton’s arms was a culmination of the slow dread that had been growing in him and that dread came not from a general disinclination to marry, it was that he did not want to marry any of the women he was supposed to choose from. He wanted to marry Maggie.

He leant against a wall in the dark street and tried to marshal his thoughts. He must marry, there was no doubt on that score. But he loved Maggie, that was now so clear to him that it was as though a thousand candles had been lit all around her, a blaze of certainty.

And yet.

He was accustomed to thinking that she belonged in his world. She was dressed for his world. She took part in all the events of the ton .

She was part of his household.

But so was Kitty the scullery maid down in the kitchen, and to his mother, to the whole of the ton if they knew her origins, Maggie was no better than Kitty. A union between them would be unthinkable and yet it was all he could think of.

He let out a groan. He had escaped a madhouse only to plunge into true madness. But the thought of marrying someone else and watching Maggie leave forever… that was not possible, it would destroy whatever happiness and confidence she had built up in his life.

He walked the streets all that night and when he returned to Atherton House as dawn broke, he was no closer to finding a way forward, leaving him to be swept along by the current, unsure whether to swim against it and risk everything or allow it to take him to a safe but unwanted shore.

In the days that followed, he found himself gazing at Maggie as they went about their days. Did she feel something more for him than friendship and kindness, the care she had always shown? He did not know how to ask her and still his own feelings for her grew stronger.