Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Elizabeth felt her last misgivings ease.
Lady Hertford was praised for her fashionable restraint.
There was nothing in her appearance that invited comment or curiosity—no excess of ornament, no anxious pursuit of fashion—only the quiet assurance of a woman who understood precisely how to be seen without being examined.
Her gowns were of excellent fabric and irreproachable cut, elegant without ostentation, and worn with the unconscious ease of long habit rather than display.
Elizabeth knew, despite her pique, that she had no cause for concern; a lady of such taste would never provoke notice, nor allow those in her care to do so.
Under Lady Hertford’s unobtrusive guardianship, propriety would be satisfied, society disarmed, and Elizabeth herself free to move without the smallest risk of censure.
“You may return to your chambers. Charlotte expects you to dine with her.” The prince waved his hand dismissively, and Elizabeth backed out of the parlor. As the doors closed before her, she breathed a sigh of relief. The coming season would be a trial but nothing she could not manage.
Still, as she walked back toward Charlotte’s wing, Elizabeth allowed herself one honest thought: freedom granted at another’s pleasure was not freedom at all—but she would make use of it nonetheless.
Princess Charlotte bombarded Elizabeth with questions the moment she stepped into the girl’s room. She wanted to know everything about her sojourn in Hertfordshire. Charlotte felt she knew Elizabeth’s cousins through her letters and stories.
“How despicable Mr. Bingley is to abandon dear Jane in such a manner.” The princess scowled. “I wish I could say a thing or two to him. I would challenge him to a duel.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I assure you, I am angry enough for both of us. I believe his family—and likely his friend, Mr. Darcy—had some influence on the decision. They made no secret of their general disdain for those in and around Meryton.”
Servants brought dinner to the private parlor the ladies shared in their wing. As the doors opened and closed, they could hear muffled sounds from the main public rooms. The Prince Regent entertained almost nightly, so it was expected.
“I am very glad you are here. It has been dreadfully boring without company.” The last time they had shared secrets was last year when the prince had decided his wife needed to be punished for some fabricated misdeed. Elizabeth had been removed from Montagu House for a month complete.
“How are your studies?”
Charlotte proceeded to describe the work her tutors assigned, lamenting the complexity of her lessons and wishing only to play her pianoforte and paint.
“Why did my father call you here?” The question was not wholly unexpected, but Elizabeth made a face. She did not wish to discuss it. Unwilling to disappoint her young friend, she described her interview with the prince and the decisions that had been made about her life.
“But Elizabeth, did you not tell me I must be strong and independent—ready to make my own decisions? How can you capitulate so easily?” The princess frowned, displeased.
“I did tell you that,” Elizabeth replied after a moment.
“And I believe it still. Strength does not always announce itself with defiance. Women like us are not granted liberty outright—we borrow it, inch by inch, by choosing when to yield and when to stand firm. A man may command where I reside, whom I must meet, even when I am to be presented; those powers are his by law and custom. But he cannot compel my affection, nor my judgment, unless I surrender them. I have secured the right to refuse what I cannot accept, and that is no small victory. If I were to oppose him openly, I would gain nothing but his displeasure—and displeasure, in such a man, is far more dangerous than disappointment. I must appear agreeable, even grateful, while reserving myself. That is how women endure. That is how we choose, when choice is not freely given.”
She paused, then continued more softly, as if shaping the thought for herself as much as for the princess.
“And so, I shall use what choice I have with care. I will listen, observe, and weigh each gentleman not by his fortune or consequence alone, but by the manner in which he treats me when he believes no advantage is to be gained. I may not insist upon affection—such hopes are a luxury—but I will not bind myself to a man who holds me in contempt, or who expects obedience in place of regard. If I must marry, then it shall be to one who respects my mind and my person, who understands that marriage is not conquest but partnership. That much, at least, remains within my power.”
Charlotte looked satisfied. She picked at her food with her fork. “Will I have choice in who I marry?” she asked timidly.
“I cannot answer that, for I do not know. You have even less choice than I, for you are bound by the expectations of your royal birth. The control the Crown has over you is greater than that which is imposed upon me. I am sorry to say it is very likely you will be forced into a marriage similar to your parents’. ”
This did not please the princess. “They cannot force me. I shall resist, just as you did.”
Elizabeth privately thought it would not be so simple for her, or for the young princess. She turned the topic to something more satisfying and proceeded to enjoy her meal. Whatever the faults of its master, Carlton House’s cook never disappointed her.
Lady Hertford called for Elizabeth the next day. She had dressed in a modest but fashionable day gown and waited for her chaperone in the same parlor as the day before.
Elizabeth stood as the lady strode confidently into the room.
She walked around Elizabeth twice, her gaze focused as she assessed what work was required.
“Your teeth are tolerable, and your complexion, though fine, has browned some from your sojourn in the country. Is the curl in your hair natural? Yes? Well, that will simplify things.”
She did not think Baker would agree with that assessment, but she said nothing. Lady Hertford was not finished, however.
“There is nothing to be done about your height—we could perhaps add a heel to some of your slippers. Your taste is not wanting. We shall need gowns befitting the ward of the Prince Regent, however, and this does not fit that expectation. Do you have anything else you can wear to Bond Street?”
“Does her ladyship wish for me to don an evening gown?” The question sounded a bit impertinent, and Elizabeth bit her lip, fearing she had offended her chaperone. To her surprise, Lady Hertford chuckled.
“Prinny was not lying about your tongue. I hope we might sharpen it adequately to be wielded against those in society who will scorn you.” She tilted Elizabeth’s chin up.
“You might not be royalty, but the connection is not one to be dismissed. And you have a fortune in your own right. They will attempt to denigrate your worth. Do not allow it.”
Elizabeth nodded, suddenly more confident about Lady Hertford’s patronage.
“Let us depart.” She glided from the room, fully expecting Elizabeth to follow.
In the carriage, Lady Hertford gave an extensive list of tasks that needed to be accomplished for the day.
“We will go to Madame Dubois. She is familiar with your needs and measurements. I sent her a note yesterday requesting a private appointment.”
Ever cognizant of the value of listening more than speaking, Elizabeth paid rapt attention to her ladyship’s words. It sounded like an insurmountable list, but Lady Hertford seemed competent and organized.
The carriage stopped outside the shop, and Elizabeth stepped down with Lady Hertford. They entered Madame Dubois’s fashionable modiste shop with two footmen at their sides.
Elizabeth noted with some surprise that there were people at the counter—people she knew. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst argued with the seamstress behind the counter.
“What do you mean the shop is closed? Clearly, you are open for customers. I demand to speak with Madame Dubois at once.” Miss Bingley stamped her foot.
“As I said, Miss Bingley, the shop is closed for a private appointment. Madame Dubois explained—”
“You misunderstood. We are here for that appointment.”
“Forgive me, madam, but you are not.” The girl, Millie, if Elizabeth recalled, tilted her chin defiantly.
Bless her. Elizabeth would have to give her some coin for the trouble.
Lady Hertford tapped her walking stick on the floor. “Where is Madame Dubois?” she asked imperiously.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley turned in tandem. Elizabeth, still partially hidden behind her chaperone, saw the moment their expressions registered that the newcomer was someone of standing.
“Lady Hertford.” Madame Dubois threw aside the curtain that led to the back. “It is such a pleasure to see you.”
Miss Bingley tittered at the name. Elizabeth could hardly believe her gauche manner. While Lady Hertford was the prince’s mistress, her rank meant she could ruin the upstart daughter of a tradesman in an instant.
“I believe you ladies were leaving.” Lady Hertford stared down her nose at the sisters.
“Of course.” Mrs. Hurst clasped a hand on Miss Bingley’s arm. “Come along, Caroline.”
Elizabeth thought she had escaped detection. Miss Bingley turned as she exited the shop, and they locked gazes. Elizabeth kept her face neutral as Miss Bingley’s eyes widened in disbelief. And then she was gone.
I hope for the lady’s sake that she does nothing untoward. If she did, there would be no place in England she could go to hide from the consequences.
By the time they returned to Carlton House, dusk had settled over London and Elizabeth’s head was full to aching.
The day had been spent in a whirl of measured indulgence: muslin walking gowns and silks in sober, elegant shades; slippers ordered with discreet heels; gloves, pelisses, and a single evening gown of restrained magnificence that Lady Hertford declared unassailable.
There were fittings, consultations, and quiet instructions delivered with efficient kindness, and Elizabeth could not deny that she had enjoyed herself—Lady Hertford proved brisk rather than unkind, her praise sparing but genuine, her judgment unfailingly sure.
Still, beneath the satisfaction lay an unease she could not entirely shake.
The ease of the day, the comfort of being guided and approved, had been intentional.
It became clear, as the carriage rolled back through the lamplit streets, that this was the prince’s design: to bind Elizabeth not through command alone, but through competence and favor—transferring her loyalty gently, almost imperceptibly, from affection to dependence.
She arrived back at her chambers outwardly composed and newly adorned, yet inwardly resolved to remember where her truest attachments lay, even as she learned to move gracefully within the circle now drawn around her.