Chapter 3
Three
The next morning, not that far from Russell Square, an heiress in possession of a healthy yearly income was waking up.
Opening her eyes, Aurora Hardcastle shivered slightly and burrowed deeper under the covers.
For a young woman used to activity—walks and rides out in the countryside near her home in the Midlands, and even at her finishing school—she felt as if the walls were closing in.
The decidedly cold state of the tip of her nose told her it was another chilly morning.
But—and here she listened closely and then smiled—she could not hear any rain beating against the windows.
Perhaps it would be fine today, and she might persuade her friend, Missie Wentworth, whose house this was, that they must both get out and walk, ride, something.
She peered at the thin crack she had left in the heavy drapes, something she made sure she did every night before she fell asleep. She needed to be able to see the sky, especially here in smoky, crowded London. The blue tinge to the light told her it was still early.
For the past three months, ever since they had arrived in London, their few excursions had involved dashing in and out of shops or visits to the modiste for pattern selections and initial measurements.
Her only sight of the great metropolis had been gray-streaked views from windows in the Wentworths’ Eaton Square home or through the fogged-up glass of the carriage.
It had seemed to her the entire city was melting into a quagmire of mud, mixing together the sounds and smells and sights into an oozing soup, trapping her into immobility.
And this was London! Finally, on the cusp of turning eighteen, she had finally arrived!
She broke into a smile and felt the corners of her blue eyes lift as she rolled over, groping for the guidebook which she kept on the nightstand next to her.
There was so much to see, and she had seen none of it to date: The Banqueting House, where the first Charles had lost his head; Tower Green, where the tragic Anne Boleyn had lost hers; St. Paul’s Cathedral; Wren’s many other churches; oh, and, yes, the bears—and weren’t there lions as well? —in the Tower Zoo.
A small noise led her to look over at the fireplace across the room. A very young housemaid was struggling to sweep out last night’s ashes and renew the coals and light them.
“Do you need some assistance?” Aurora asked and then bit her tongue. She suddenly remembered that was not the proper thing to do, particularly in a household as high in the instep and Ton as this one was.
The young woman gasped and whirled about. “Oh, begging your pardon, miss. I was not supposed to wake you! Mrs. Philipps will be ever so cross if she knew I had done so. I will be finished directly. Only, only it won’t take, see?” and she promptly burst into tears.
Aurora was up in a flash, grabbing a shawl from a nearby chair and wrapping it around herself.
She crossed swiftly to the housemaid and knelt beside her.
“Then it’ll be our secret. There’s still too much ash here, see?
And you need to put the coals just so and use the paper to light them here and here.
” A tiny flame began to flicker and spread. “What’s your name?”
The young woman—girl, really—choked down the rest of her sobs and wiped the back of a sooty hand across her eyes.
Her uniform was a bit large for her slight and bony figure; her hands were coarse and reddened.
“Lucy, miss. I’m new here. I’m still making ever so many mistakes.
Begging your pardon, miss, I didn’t know fine London ladies knew how to do such things. ”
Aurora smiled at her. “I’m not a fine London lady. At least, not yet. I will be soon, though. I am working very hard at it.” The slight ironic emphasis she gave to the latter point only confused Lucy, who wrinkled her brow in puzzlement.
“Then you ain’t from London, miss?”
“No, from a small town in the Midlands. I’m very far from home myself. Lord and Lady Wentworth are going to present me this Season.” She paused. “Tell me, are there many parks in London?”
“Oh, yes, miss. Ever so many.”
Aurora sighed. “My guidebook says so as well. However, as I cannot get out to them, I begin to believe they are only fiction. I miss being outside.” She shivered as her feet began to turn to lumps of ice in the still chilly room.
“You’d best get back in bed, miss. I will let your lady’s maid know you are awake. Are you ready for your chocolate?”
“Yes, I am. However, Hyacinth,” (What a ridiculous name for a lady’s maid, she observed for the umpteenth time.
What a ridiculous name for anyone! But Lady Wentworth, her hostess and chaperone, had insisted she was the best possible choice for the Season, and Mr. Hardcastle’s instructions were specific—the top of the line in all things for his daughter), “will not be ready yet. I am awake too early. If Cook is about, would you ask her to send me up a dish of tea? I can have my chocolate later when everyone else does.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” and Aurora darted to the bed, clambering in quickly and trying to find some warmth in the now chilled sheets, as the chambermaid silently let herself out.
She lay back and looked at the inside of the bed’s canopy. It was brand new, part of the recent purchases for her time in London. Her father was stinting at nothing.
“Oh, Papa, is this necessary?” She answered her own question immediately, “Yes.”
Her mother’s face, commanding the breakfast table and lecturing Aurora yet again over the dos and don’ts of proper behavior is what had answered the question, if she was being honest. She blamed this entire situation on her mother.
She could hear her now: “A young woman’s future is in matrimony, a young lady’s future even more so.
” And a young lady heiress, well, that simply made the task even more imperative.
She sighed and picked up the end of the long, thick braid she plaited her hair into every night before placing the nightcap on her head.
Well, the braid that Hyacinth now plaited before placing said nightcap.
Still a nondescript brown. Mousy. The only time her hair became beautiful was in the summer, when she spent a goodly portion of the day outdoors, either working in the garden, or riding, or walking through the meadows and fields around her home.
The time spent in the sun turned the strands of her hair blonde and red and other shades in-between, bringing a rich glow to it.
Sun-kissed, her father called it. Summer was far away, and she had not seen the sun for so long now.
Her hair, like herself, seemed to be fading into indeterminacy.
She looked with longing toward the heavy curtains, which let only a tantalizing glimpse of pale morning light into the room.
A lifetime of early rising, unchanged from a country childhood with parents for whom early to bed and early to rise was a lived saying, and then the discipline (such as it was) of the finishing school, far away in Brighton where Papa and Mama had packed her off to, meant she was not yet able to join in the habit of sleeping in as did Lady Wentworth and Missie.
She supposed she would learn, once the rounds of balls and other entertainments began, though she was dreading them.
Making conversation with dullards, or men without a clear thought in their heads, their eyes glazing over until someone whispered her annual income into their ears, and then the instantly assumed mask of interest which had been absent before—she could well imagine that already.
She heard herself sigh. This was only depressing her.
She began to play with the end of her braid again.
All right, if she were at home right now, what would she be doing?
Well, she would jump out of bed for a quick ride or a brisk walk around the grounds and then join Papa in his office.
Mama never ceased to tut-tut her displeasure at her daughter’s continued interest in Mr. Hardcastle’s business affairs.
Still, they had been Aurora’s earliest entertainment, and they had never bored her.
It remained a great treat to be able to join him on the short ride or walk to the factory, surveying the workshop floor and then enquiring as to the latest figures with Mr. Ambleside, long-time manager, and her father’s trusted factotum.
Her eyes stole to her bedside table. Along with the guidebook sat the treasured gifts from her father: a collection of Keats’ poetry and Chapman’s translations of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.
Her mother had shrieked when she saw Aurora tucking them into her valise, but on this point her daughter had been firm: She would submit to the Marriage Mart, but she required sustenance for the journey. Those three books would provide that.
Once more, contemplating the ceiling of the bed, she gave herself over to missing home.
She knew her father would have preferred her to stay close.
He told her often how much he valued her eye for detail and the considered nature of her opinions.
As she grew older, her mother’s sense of what was and how things were meant to be gained in ascendance in their household, and, so, their sole child, she was sent off to be finished and now, for the topper, down to London to be trotted out like a prize racehorse.
A scratch at the door announced the return of Lucy.
The girl pushed it open slowly, struggling with a large tray carrying a teapot, a cup and saucer, a tiny pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar.
She staggered over to the bedside table, and Aurora quickly pulled the long-cold candlestick and books off the top so Lucy could set the tray down.
It shivered as it landed with a bit too much force, but everything righted itself, and nothing spilled.