Chapter 3
A week had passed since their dinner at the Chawleighs’ London house—and six days since Sophia had seen Mr. Harwood in the park, where she had managed to speak to him.
She had opened her lips to ask a completely unprompted question.
He’d answered most naturally, but it surprised even her mother and sisters so much they exclaimed about it afterward.
Sophia managed to satisfy their curiosity with the claim that she was attempting to speak up more—practicing so she might be ready for all of the season’s events.
Despite the fact that her resolve to put Mr. Harwood entirely out of her mind had been cast aside in that moment, she could not regret her impulse in having addressed him, for she had shown herself—and him—that she was capable of it.
Sophia held on to that small triumph now, as she was about to undergo the most terrifying experience of her lifetime.
She was required to make her presentation to the queen, and the anticipation, the expectation, left her bound by fear like a prisoner awaiting conviction.
Her tight corset, ridiculous puffed skirt that went all the way up to her bodice—completely removing any trace of a figure, by the way—and the feathers pinned to her hair in a Prince-of-Wales plume certainly did not help her to feel any more like herself.
“Dorry, I am not sure I can go through with this,” she murmured breathlessly from inside their carriage as they inched forward in their approach to St. James’s Palace. They were almost to where the road met Pall Mall.
Her sister, Lady Dorothea Shaw, had been married for just under a year and was already expecting her first child.
She sat beside her husband Miles in the forward-facing seat, across from Sophia.
It was the only way both sisters would fit with their wide skirts, a necessary part of their elaborate court dress, and Dorothea was too ill in the early stages to take the rear-facing seat.
“You can and must fulfill this obligation,” Dorothea replied firmly.
“How we ever managed to secure vouchers to Almack’s last year without my having been presented is a mystery to me still.
I can only suppose it was because our father had departed this Earth before he could properly introduce us to the ton, and we were accorded a measure of grace. ”
Sophia didn’t respond, and after a moment, a mischievous chuckle escaped Dorothea.
“That, or the patronesses consider their reign superior to that of the queen and did not care whether or not we’d been presented.
But you may be sure no such reprieve will be extended to us again this year.
We are not so distinguished as to forego this courtesy to the queen. ”
Sophia knit her brows, unwilling to contradict her sister but unable to stay silent at words she considered unjust. “I am sure the patronesses do not think themselves above the queen. Only think of how kind Lady Sefton is. And Lady Jersey, how droll! They were merely being gracious regarding our circumstances.”
Dorothea smiled and shook her head. “You are determined to think well of everyone, but not everyone is deserving of it. Regardless of what transpired last year, we must certainly present ourselves in the queen’s drawing room this year.”
It was unnecessary for Sophia to remind herself how much each social setting challenged her peace of mind, but to be required to make her curtsy before the queen without a single error was nothing short of terrifying.
She glanced at Miles, who returned a sympathetic look.
He seemed to understand better than his wife just how great the trial was for her.
Dorothea was adept at most things and had trouble sympathizing with the challenges of others, although she was changing.
A devoted and loving—but firm—husband, Miles softened those traits in her that might be described as managing.
Goodness knew there was much to manage; now that their eldest sister had left their house on Grosvenor Square and moved into her marital home, it became clear how much responsibility she had always taken on.
Sophia could only respect her for having carried it all for as long as she did.
After the ladies in the carriage ahead of them had been helped out, the earl’s carriage inched forward.
The line moving toward the palace had turned into a two-hour wait, and now it would finally be Sophia’s turn to step into the court.
She smoothed her hands over her white silk net gown with chenille embellishments.
With the panniers placed close to the high waistline, she scarcely knew what to do with her arms. But it was useless to argue against the requirements of court dress.
Her only stand was to insist upon wearing feathers from the humbler pheasant for the required three fanned out in her headdress.
Dorothea would have had her wear the more elaborate ostrich feathers, but Sophia remained firm.
“Besides,” her sister continued, “this year, we are in a better position to make our presentation. We do not need our mama to give us countenance, as I am married and can fulfill that role. Such a thing would have been too much for her.”
Their mother, always sentimental and frail, had fully succumbed to her bereavement in the two years following the death of their father, which had caused Dorothea to sometimes grow impatient with her.
Sophia could understand her mother’s difficulty in moving on without the bulwark of their family to steady her, but could also sympathize with her sister’s impatience over the prolonged expression of grief.
Their father had not been an easy man to live with.
The door to their carriage opened, and the liveried footman standing outside of it bowed and held out his hand.
Dorothea alighted first, followed by Sophia, and finally Miles.
The gates to the palace were open, and ahead of them a line of people entered the courtyard.
The swirl of white gowns indicated those who were as yet unbetrothed, and the more colorful gowns those who were married.
Sophia attempted to draw a deep breath but without much success.
They crossed the courtyard and filed past the Chapel Royal before entering and following the procession to the grand staircase.
The wall was papered in a blue flowered pattern, and the accents on the staircase were gold.
On the upper level, they were led into the anteroom, where noble guests, seemingly from another era, advanced unhurriedly toward the Presence Chamber.
A cluster of ladies, speaking in hushed voices and rapidly waving their fans, stood waiting to be announced.
Contrary to the agitation around her, Sophia went perfectly still and reached for any thread of tranquility she might still have within.
It was too much. She did not know if she could go through with it.
Dorothea leaned in. “Don’t forget to breathe, my dear. You must not faint.”
Sophia nodded and, just as the edges of her vision started to close in, she inhaled deeply.
It helped, and her vision cleared. She was stronger than she realized and could get through this ordeal.
You managed to speak to Felix Harwood without having a question put to you directly, she reminded herself. You can meet the queen.
“I can do this,” she said. “It is unlikely she will speak to me.”
“And if she does, you need only respond with the veriest commonplace, and that you can do.”
The doors opened, and the chamberlain stepped out.
He lifted the list in his hand and began reading off names.
The designated ladies entered, and the door closed behind them.
They were back to waiting, and Sophia decided to be resolute.
This lasted until the door opened again, and the chamberlain announced more names.
She had to force in another shaky breath when she heard, “Lady Dorothea Shaw. Lady Sophia Rowlandson.” At least she would be presented at the same time as her sister.
“Lady Sefton should already be inside, since she is presenting us,” Dorothea informed her in a thready whisper. Behind her, Sophia heard the excited whispers of smiling young ladies, eager to have their turn. It seemed that no one was nervous but her.
The Presence Room was richly decorated with dark red velvet curtains tied back to reveal the tall windows on the right side; a large Persian rug in similar tones covered the floor.
A fire roared in the marble-encased chimney, and above that, ancient arms were displayed on the wall.
Sophia scarcely took in these details as her feet carried her midway into the room.
She focused only on the three plumes waving from her sister’s head in front of her and the vague glimpse she had of Her Royal Highness seated on a red upholstered chair at the end of the room.
You are capable. She breathed. You can make your curtsy to the queen, and you shall officially be launched for the London season. You have enough confidence. After all, you spoke to…
“Lady Dorothea Shaw, eldest sister to the fifth Earl of Poole, married to Mr. Miles Shaw.”
All thought fled as her sister glided forward and made a deep curtsy before Queen Charlotte.
Lady Sefton spoke for her, and Sophia had a glimpse of the startling height of the queen’s wig.
She wondered if she always wore it like that, or if it was merely for court.
Numb from fear, she heard her sister replying, “You are all kindness, Your Majesty.” Then Dorothea backed up toward the door that would lead into the gallery, where freedom was to be found.
“Lady Sophia Rowlandson, second sister to the fifth Earl of Poole.”