Chapter 15
Fifteen
Aurora attempted to settle herself in the carriage, but she knew this was not to be a relaxing ride.
“Remember,” said Lady Wentworth for what seemed like the thousandth time, “while this is not one of the premiere events of the Season, it is an opportunity to see and be seen. I insist you both receive invitations to Almack’s, and although Lady Jersey and Lady Sefton will most likely not be in attendance this evening, rest assured everything that happens tonight will be noted. You must both be perfection.
“As to Lady Hinsdale,” she went on, “she is a trifle eccentric, as I am sure I have told you before. She is of a very old and important family, and one of the foremost members of the Ton. So, she cannot be offended. She is also a long-time, dear friend of the Queen. Aurora, if you twitch so, you will crease your skirt beyond repair. See how Millicent sits? Serene. Unruffled. That is the demeanor of a lady. That is how I caught the eye of Lord W.”
Lady Wentworth turned and looked at the elegantly dressed man snoring in the corner of the carriage, his suit for the evening a portion of the largesse provided by Aurora’s father to cover the cost of the launch of his daughter into Society, which Aurora was uncomfortably aware of.
Nothing else was said until the carriage rattled up to the front of Lady Hinsdale’s house, when her ladyship poked her spouse with the end of her fan. “Wake up, Percy. We are arrived.”
With a snort and a gurgle, Percy, Lord Wentworth, struggled to a fully upright sitting position and attempted to look alert. “Simply resting my eyes, m’dear. Had a ferocious game of faro last night at m’club. Deuced business. Won handsomely, though. I am tireder than the de’il now.”
His wife looked over her shoulder at him as she was shepherding her charges out. Aurora could not help but overhear the hissing rejoinder: “Do behave, Percy. For Millicent’s sake. We cannot afford to ruin this.”
* * *
Holding up their skirts and mindful of their slippers, the women climbed the stairs to the front door and were ushered inside, to be greeted by a blaze of lights.
A footman took their wraps, and they were directed up a staircase flanked by candles.
A gigantic chandelier overhead reflected and dispersed the light, its multi-faceted prisms swaying faintly.
The women appeared to glitter as they climbed to the ballroom, which covered the entire run of the next floor.
Aurora looked around, enchanted. She felt as if she were in a dream; it nearly took her breath away.
It required all her concentration not to trip over her own feet.
When they reached the ballroom’s entrance, they stopped and gave their names to the footman waiting to announce them outside that room’s open doors.
“Lord Wentworth, Baron Hinchcliffe, and Lady Wentworth. The Honorable Millicent Wentworth. Miss Aurora Hardcastle,” he announced in accents placed to carry.
The ballroom floor itself was a few steps down from its door, so that newcomers had a moment to survey the room and be seen in turn.
Embarrassed, Aurora tried to head down them as quickly as possible.
However, Missie didn’t follow. She stood there, at the top, her face in its mask of doll-like immobility and slowly turned her head.
A hush descended on the room, and a whisper began.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she descended the handful of steps and joined Aurora.
The buzz of conversation had started again when their party reached the end of the receiving line, and Lady Hinsdale.
A tiny woman, whose face was with lined with age and painted stark white in the style of thirty years ago or more, her monstrous wig was nearly as tall as she was.
She clasped a hand of each of the young women and then began to speak in a voice remarkably young and musical for such a painted face and grotesquely reddened lips.
“I am so pleased you have come to my concert,” she said.
She gestured to where rows of chairs had been arranged at one end of the room.
“I prefer the sound the music makes in this room to my music room below. I hope you do as well.” She searched each girl’s face, as though she were reading a book that only she knew the language of.
“Yes, you are a Beauty,” she said, patting Missie’s hand.
And then she turned to look at Aurora. “And you? What are you, hmm? Something else entirely.” She leaned forward into Aurora’s face.
The urge to pull back was strong, but Aurora resisted it
“I like you,” their hostess said, regaining her rigid upright posture. “I shall be watching you.” Then, dropping each of their hands, she turned to greet Lord and Lady Wentworth.
Thoroughly discomposed, Aurora was grateful to escape with Missie in the direction of the table supporting a towering fountain of some type of punch or Negus. “What was that, Missie?” she whispered urgently, once it was clear they had left their hostess on the other side of the room.
“Goodness knows. What a horror. I probably shan’t sleep a wink all night. I am sure there was something alive in her hair. It doesn’t signify,” she finished with a delicate, almost imperceptible shudder and whisked open her fan. “La! What a crush.”
Aurora glanced around her. It was a sea of colors—gowns and feathers and flesh perfumed with a variety of scents as people wafted past her.
Lavender. Bay Rum. She flinched slightly as one particular dandy swept by—a touch of sweat and the stables as well.
What am I doing here? She asked herself.
She felt lost and reached for something, anything, to give her back her footing.
Homer was a no in a situation like this.
A picture of the poet weaving through this crowd sprang to mind, and she almost let out a desperate giggle.
For the first time, she wished she had spent more time listening to the lectures of how to navigate in situations like these, on how a lady was to behave, on how to make conversation (should the properly introduced opportunity present itself), and a little less on Homer or the best way to tot up a string of figures so the books balanced.
She glued her eyes onto Missie’s back, as though this could save her from drowning.
Aurora whipped open her fan and ended up whacking the arm of a very stately dowager passing by at that moment.
Her face crimsoned in shame, and she snapped it shut again.
Aurora began to pray fervently for the moment when they could take their seats and the music would begin.
At least during the music, she could simply listen as everyone else would be forced to stillness and quiet.
It would give her a respite. Until supper, then the dancing.
And maybe he would be there. The dark, broodingly handsome duke.
Marjorie’s father. She was uncertain whether the possibility thrilled or simply and overwhelmingly terrified her.