Chapter 5 The Halesworth Ball
Chapter 5
The Halesworth Ball
H er peaceful time with Lord Barrington having expired, Frances had reluctantly returned to London as promised and was once again enduring the boredom and strain of social expectations. The current day promising nothing but grey drizzle until the social calls of the early afternoon, Frances had taken up residence in the drawing room, curled into the rocking chair, accompanied by volume two of Donovan’s Natural History of British Shells. Her peaceful morning was interrupted when the door opened and a footman appeared.
“Lady Lilley requests that you join her in the morning room, Miss.”
Reluctantly Frances followed him to the morning room, where her mother usually spent time managing the household. She was dismayed to find a larger than usual selection of magazines laid about, opened up at the fashion plates, and her mother looking unusually bright and cheerful.
“You will recall the tragedy that befell the Buckinghams?”
Frances did not recall anything about the Buckinghams, but whatever the tragedy was, her mother looked altogether too happy to be recounting it.
“No,” she replied, hoping by her tone to indicate her lack of interest.
“You cannot have forgotten! The Duke of Buckingham died of apoplexy and directly afterwards his son, the new duke, died in a hunting accident. It was all anyone could talk about.”
Frances gave a grimacing nod, as much to indicate that yes, she was now aware of what the tragedy was and still had no interest in it.
“So now ,” continued her mother, oblivious to any hints, “the younger brother, Edward, is Duke of Buckingham and is to be married.”
Frances nodded again but her mother was looking at her as though this time, a nod was not sufficient. “To whom?” she asked, hoping the answer would be brief.
“I meant he is looking for a wife,” said her mother. “The Duchess his mother has made it clear to her acquaintances that His Grace intends to find a wife this very season. They are already in town; the Duchess, the Duke and a cousin, a Miss… Miss Seton, I think. Of course, the Duchess cannot be seen to be too lavish in her clothing, since she is so recently in mourning, but her modiste told me, in the strictest confidence, that she has ordered more than a dozen dresses already, and for Miss Seton, twice that number and with a promise of more to come. They are only accepting the occasional invitation during the Little Season, they say because of the mourning and so on but we all know really it is to draw more attention to themselves. Every hostess in London is desperate to have them accept an invitation.”
Frances yawned.
“Frances!”
“Yes?”
“You are not paying attention.”
“I am paying attention,” said Frances. “Every hostess in London is desperate to have them accept an invitation.”
“Repeating my words back to me like a parrot is not the same as listening, Frances,” said her mother sulkily. “You must see that this is news of great import to us.”
“Why?”
“Because he is looking for a wife. And he is a young man, who has not previously been much in town and will not know that you are…. that this is not your first season.”
“Someone will tell him, no doubt.”
“Whether they tell him or not, for him you are new, he has not met you before.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-two, I think, so the same as you.”
“Where has he been?”
“What?”
“Where has he been all this time? The young men of the ton generally spend years in London before they seek out a wife. Where has he been?”
“Stop repeating that, you still sound like a parrot!”
“It’s an obvious question.”
“I don’t know. Studying, travelling, I believe there was an uncle in Ireland he visited…” said her mother vaguely. “The Duchess said he was fond of astronomy.”
Frances didn’t respond.
“Astronomy is part of the natural world,” tried her mother desperately.
Frances raised her eyebrows.
“We will visit the modiste this afternoon. The Halesworth ball is in two weeks and the Duke will be there.”
Frances felt the threat and braced herself for all that was to follow. As she had feared, the following days involved milliners and modistes, leaving her on the day of the ball concealed beneath layers of fine green muslin and silk, her hair in the tightest of tight ringlets and under strict instructions to “ try and be appropriate.” She had not answered this plea, but her mother had found it necessary to add, “The Duke of Buckingham will not want to marry an odd girl, Frances, so try to behave normally .”
The Halesworth ball, held by Lord and Lady Halesworth, was both large and well attended, being one of the first major balls of the Little Season, the first chance to see and be seen, to assess this year’s marriage mart and judge its worth. Boldly decorated with autumnal shades of flowers and berries, brilliantly lit with hundreds of beeswax candles which perfumed the air with a sweet honey scent, it was generally acknowledged by all attendees that Lady Halesworth had certainly done a fine job as hostess. Champagne flowed freely and there were pretty paper fans with tiny silver pencils provided for all the young ladies who would be dancing, listing the dances that would be played with an adjacent space for their partners’ names.
Frances shook her head at the champagne, which only ever made her feel dizzy, took her fan and silver pencil, then retreated as fast as possible behind two large palms in a corner of the room.
“Frances.”
She turned and her shoulders dropped in relief. “Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth Belmont, daughter to Lord and Lady Godwin, was a delicately built young woman, with dark hair and such a quiet voice that everyone called her “the mouse” behind her back. Frances had known her since they were children and had always relished her company, Elizabeth being one of the few people she knew who neither wore strong perfume nor minded sitting in companionable silence while reading or drawing, one of Elizabeth’s favourite pastimes. Excellent at capturing a sitter’s features in a few simple strokes of charcoal, she would happily sit and sketch Frances while Frances read to herself or occasionally out loud. She was a couple of years younger than Frances and had only recently come out.
“Are you on the marriage mart this year?” Frances asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “My parents are determined I should marry the Duke of Buckingham. He is new to town, young, rich, handsome… and a duke. They can barely contain their excitement.
Frances nodded. “Mine too.”
Elizabeth gave a laugh. “And all the other mamas of the ton , no doubt. Poor man, he will not know a moment’s peace until he is engaged.” She scanned the floor, then stiffened. “Here he comes now.”
A tall young man, elegantly dressed in the finest tailoring but with unfashionably long fair hair which brushed his shoulders, stood before them. “May I have the next dance, Miss Belmont?”
Frances watched as Elizabeth held out her fan and the new Duke of Buckingham wrote his name, before turning vivid blue eyes on her and bowing again. “Miss… Lilley? May I also claim a dance from you?”
Frances dropped him a curtsey and held out her fan. He wrote his name and she noticed his hand shook as he did so, wondered whether he, too, would rather not be here, before he bowed and stepped away from them. She glanced at Elizabeth to see what she thought.
“Shy,” said Elizabeth.
Frances nodded. Shy might be promising, she supposed, he might at least not be one of those loud men who stomped about with boots and gave their opinions when they were not wanted. But he had made a beeline for Elizabeth, already briefed by his mama as to whom he should pay attention, hesitating over her name. Elizabeth, freshly out after a ball held two weeks previously, would be considered the better catch, even though they were both daughters of viscounts.
“How was your first ball?” Frances asked.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Stiff. Mama was so very disappointed that the Queen was not holding a Drawing Room to present me that she made me wear court dress anyway. Can you imagine? Plumes and all. It was ridiculous, no-one else dressed that way. Only Lady Celia Follett seemed to enjoy herself, but then she’s already promised to the Earl of Comerford, so she doesn’t have to worry about finding a husband. She can enjoy a season of balls and parties and then be married. I think I envy her.” She pointed with her closed fan to a young woman dancing, whose face was alight with merriment at something her partner had just said. “She is always in fine spirits, I am sure she will make the Earl a happy wife.”
“Is he here?”
“Not yet. He will return for the opening of Parliament in November.”
Frances watched the dancers as they formed and reformed the patterns of the quadrille. If she could only watch dancing, it might be enjoyable, for there was something pleasing about the way the dancers moved between one another, repeating the same figures. But to dance among them was to keep perfect count of the moves and to interminably smile and nod, to sometimes talk to one’s partner, which many young ladies did with great charm and vivacity, but which Frances found exhausting, her bright smile soon turning to a grimace or an expression of burden. Despite not wanting to marry, she somewhat envied the Earl of Comerford and Lady Celia. A marriage already settled on while they were still in their nurseries, no wooing required or expected. They could go about their lives and wait for the day when they were to complete the ceremony. There would be none of this false flattery, this simpering to catch the eye of some foolish young man and hope to chain him down as quickly as possible.
She sighed as she saw the first of her partners heading towards her. There was nowhere to hide, it would have to be borne.
The ball passed as they always did, a chore to be got through, one drudgery of a dance after another. The Duke of Buckingham was all but silent, although he performed their dance admirably, with neat steps and a gracefulness which Frances herself did not have. Frances imagined that if the Duke were to show any interest in her, their marriage would be all but silent, a thought that very nearly made him seem interesting, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere and that she had not caught his attention. Lord Radcliffe also made it abundantly clear he was disinterested in her, looking around the room for better options, while Lord Frampton made a gallant effort at pleasant conversation but fell silent after a while when her responses did not provide much to build on. Frances would happily have left early, but she could see her mother watching her, an anxious expression on her face, which only served to remind her that she was failing yet again.
“Miss Lilley! I did not expect to see you here.”
The familiarity of the voice brought a half smile to her lips. She turned to see Mr Mowatt before her and held out her hand without thinking, which he readily took and bowed over, placing a small kiss on her glove. She pulled her hand back, fearing she was being too forward, but his expression seemed pleased.
“I was obliged to attend,” she managed.
He gave a rueful smile. “Always so blunt,” he said, but there was something warm in the way he said it that did not sound like the chastisements of her mother. “Will you dance?”
“I would rather not.”
This time he laughed out loud. “Then may I escort you for an ice, at least? Lord Barrington would be disappointed in us if we did not at least share some refreshment, in view of our connection through him.”
She took his proffered arm and nodded to Elizabeth, who was speaking with Lady Honora Fortescue.
“And now that you have been obliged to attend, are you beginning to enjoy yourself?”
“No,” she said. “I look forward to leaving as soon as possible.”
“Surely you have a list of eligible young men with whom your mother has insisted you dance?”
“I have already danced with the Duke of Buckingham. No-one cares about anyone else.”
He nodded. “That is true. I have met him, he is a pleasant enough fellow, quiet but thoughtful. I like him. He will make someone an excellent husband.”
“I doubt it will be me. He can have anyone he chooses.”
Perhaps he felt obliged to give her some small compliment. “Anyone who marries you will have a wife who will always be honest with them,” he began, then hesitated, before adding, “Besides, you are interesting to talk with.”
She gazed at him, assessing his words for some hidden slight but did not find one, he seemed to believe what he was saying. “I am not sure those are the qualities men seek in a wife,” she said at last.
“What qualities would you say they sought, then?”
She gave a rueful smile. “Prettiness, polite conversation, breeding and money.” She paused. “I have the last two, but not the first.”
“You are pretty,” he said, and he sounded surprised, as though the opinion had only just come to him. “But your conversation perhaps is not quite what young men are used to,” he admitted.
She nodded, pleased that he had not attempted to deny that she was at least right about her lack of polite conversation. “Have you seen Lord Barrington since we were last there?” she asked.
“No, though he wrote to me to say he feels more tired these days. I will try to visit him before Christmas.”
“In Margate?”
“Yes, he leaves Margate just before Christmas, as you know, to be at the main estate during the festive period. He takes most of the staff with him, since they are used to his ways and needs. A few stay behind to keep the house in good order against his return. Will you be visiting?”
Frances shook her head. “I doubt I will be allowed to escape all of this.”
“I will give him your compliments, then.”
“Thank you.”
He would have stayed longer, but Lady Celia Follett was turning her head to look for him, he had promised her the next dance. “I must go.”
She nodded and gave him a brief curtsey. “Goodbye, Mr Mowatt.”
“Miss Lilley.”
He left her and walked across the ballroom to Lady Celia. Lady Celia would have been one of the season’s brightest stars and most desirable brides, were it not for the fact that her right hand was oddly deformed. She had been born with a full-size thumb and little finger, but the three fingers in-between were only tiny stubs, like baby toes, incapable of much movement and of no use in daily life. Fortunately, two points stood her in good favour in avoiding spinsterhood. Firstly, she was the daughter of a duke, with a large dowry to accompany her unfortunate disfigurement, which might perhaps cancel out the risk that her children might be born with a similar fault. Secondly, she was already promised in marriage, for her family had, at her very birth, already arranged a betrothal with the Earl of Comerford’s second son, who had at the time been all of ten years old. The two families had been very close and it had been agreed then, and always expected, that the betrothal would be held to, the wishes of the two parties involved set entirely aside. Their plans had gone somewhat awry, however, when the Earl had died earlier than expected and his sickly heir had followed two years later. Lady Celia was now betrothed to the Earl of Comerford. This year, Lady Celia had finally been brought out, and the expectation was that she might enjoy herself for one season, before being married in the early summer and would then be suitably settled with the Earl. She would be a countess. It was a small drop in title, but then that was to be expected given her deformity and, in compensation, the Earl of Comerford would be connected to a duke and have a very wealthy wife.
Laurence bowed. “Lady Celia. I believe I have the honour of this dance?”
Sparkling brown eyes and a ready smile greeted him as Lady Celia swept an immaculate curtsey and held out her right hand to be led to the dancefloor. She wore white elbow length gloves and as Laurence took her hand he could feel that the central three fingers of the glove had been stuffed with something. Her glove, then, had been adapted so that no-one could see the real shape of the hand, even though the ton ’s whispers had already seen and described it multiple times.
The music began and Lady Celia, a happy smile on her face, proved to be an excellent dancer.
“Are you enjoying your first season?” asked Laurence politely.
“I am,” she said. “I love to dance, and my Papa has been generous with my clothing allowance, as you can see.”
She was indeed dressed in the very latest fashion, with a delicate silk dress made in a deep crimson which suited her black hair and dark eyes.
“And are you enjoying the season, Mr Mowatt?”
He was distracted by the sight of Frances as they passed her, who was fanning herself, even though the room was not very warm. Laurence wondered if the fanning motion was similar to the rocking and swinging that she seemed to enjoy. Perhaps it was a way to release her pent-up feelings at being forced to attend such occasions.
“Mr Mowatt?”
“I do beg your pardon,” he replied. “My eye was caught by an acquaintance. The season is always a pleasure to partake in. Is the Earl of Comerford here tonight?”
Lady Celia shook her head, black curls bouncing. “He is not. I have not seen him for some years.”
He frowned. “Some years ? I beg your pardon, Lady Celia, I thought you were betrothed?”
“He was in the navy, being the second son, but his older brother was always sickly and died earlier this year. He returned at once, but has been much occupied. The last time I saw him, I was twelve years old. It has been six years. But yes, we are indeed engaged to be wed.”
Laurence wanted to ask questions, but was aware it would sound rude, too blunt to express surprise that she had barely seen her betrothed since she was a child. Instead, he smiled and said only, “I wish you a happy reunion and marriage.”
She nodded and that was the end of their conversation. He thought, with a wry smile, that Frances would not have been so polite, so restrained. She would have made her feelings known, would have asked bolder questions, or, if she were Lady Celia, would have said exactly what she thought of being betrothed to a man she did not know. Although perhaps it was simply a matter of convenience for all involved. The Duke and his wife did not have to fret over the prospects of their daughter, the Earl did not have to concern himself with choosing a suitable bride. All had already been taken care of. Was that not, after all, what he wished for? A marriage of convenience, a wife ready-chosen and pre-approved by his family.
Such a wife would be Honora Fortescue, for it would be an eminently suitable marriage and there could be no possible objection. Lord Barrington might believe in true love somehow appearing in the next twelvemonth, but Laurence knew his duty and was a more practical man. Lady Honora, daughter of Lord and Lady Halesworth, heiress to the Fortescue Hall and estate. His future wife. He nodded to her as he passed one more time round the ballroom with Lady Celia and she nodded back. Yes, it was all settled, if not yet formally then certainly there was a kind of understanding between them. Unless Lady Honora bagged herself the Duke of Buckingham, the deal was as good as done. There was a comfort to that, he felt. Duty taken care of. No need to look further. No need to think of wooing any lady here. His life, once married, would continue as before: he would spend time with the married ladies of his acquaintance, would take care of the estate, but his wife would take care of everything else – the household and children. It seemed a lonely future, but that was absurd of course. Half the married men of the ton lived as he did, as he planned to do. They sported in brothels, kept a mistress, or, like himself, kept their eye out for bored ladies of the ton who would enjoy a little adventure. It had always been this way. There was no need for his life to be any different.
He could see Miss Lilley, who had retreated even further from the occasion behind a vast potted plant, her fan still fluttering in an agitated manner. Perhaps he would go and talk with her again, after all he owed it to Lord Barrington to show consideration towards his goddaughter, and it would be something to report back to him. Besides, she made a change from the simpering girls here.
Frances could not stomach one more dance. The swirling bodies, the different perfumes all jumbled together, the constant music and chatter were making her head ache and her stomach turn over. She moved along the wall until she was in a corner behind a vast plant and settled herself close to two women, one a fair-headed and amply bosomed woman in a dark pink silk, the other a small-built woman in blue taffeta. They were commenting on various dancers. Frances caught Mr Mowatt’s name and began paying attention to their conversation.
“Mowatt.” The woman in blue sighed as he danced past with Lady Celia Follett. “They say… well, I believe he can be very friendly, if approached by a married lady…? And – and discreet?”
The fair-haired woman smiled dreamily. “He is… quite magnificent,” she murmured. “Every inch a gentleman.”
The woman in blue caught her breath. “Oh. And… and how would one…”
“A card to his rooms. Perhaps an invitation to the theatre or opera or even the Pleasure Gardens, that is where we… well, never mind.”
“And you… still?”
“Oh no. Mr Mowatt’s acquaintance is of a short-lived nature, he does not wish to draw unwanted attention. Especially from a lady’s spouse.”
The woman in blue swallowed. “But it would be… worth my while…?”
The fair-haired woman leant closer. “You will remember it for the rest of your days.”
Frances listened behind her open fan. This was what Mr Mowatt preferred, then: to amuse himself with married women rather than seek love in his planned marriage, as romantic Lord Barrington would no doubt want for him.
It was no concern of hers, certainly.
She had enjoyed talking with him, had begun to think of him as a friend, but the women’s gossip had made her feel uncomfortable. She was unsure why. He had certainly not behaved inappropriately to her. She was tired from the long evening, she would seek out her mother and beg to go home, even if she had to invent a sudden faintness.
On the other side of the ballroom Laurence was intercepted by Lord Radcliffe.
“Mowatt, there you are. I’m trying to convince Lymington here to come down the House of Flowers with me tonight. They say there’s fresh stock. How about it?”
The Earl of Radcliffe was a rake of the highest order and Mowatt had little time for him. The House of Flowers was an expensive brothel and the Earl was a regular customer, but Laurence was not particularly fond of his company.
“Another time, Radcliffe.”
“Already taken? One of your married ladies, I suppose. Can’t be doing with them myself, too prone to falling in love for my liking and then it’s the very devil to get them out of your business, sending love notes and whatnot and weeping in public, not the thing at all.”
Laurence was in fact intending to go home alone tonight, but was not about to tell Radcliffe that. “Appointment already made, I’m afraid, can’t be undone.”
“You’re a dog, Mowatt,” said Radcliffe with a chuckle. “Don’t be getting involved with any duelling-minded husbands, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
Radcliffe turned to Lord Lymington, who shook his head.
“Dull man,” pronounced the Earl. “I’ll leave you to your paperwork, then. Nothing like coming into your inheritance to make a chap boring. You all need to learn to leave matters of business to your stewards, like I do.”
They watched him go, Lord Lymington frowning. “Does he run his estate well, though?”
“No,” said Laurence. “He lets parts of it go to rack and ruin, that’s what I hear. Don’t listen to him. Let’s go to the club and have a drink instead.”
Lymington looked relieved at the change of plan and agreed, leading the way through the busy throng. Laurence saw Miss Lilley watching him as an attendant helped her into her evening cloak ready to depart, her face thoughtful as she met his gaze. He nodded to her, but she did not nod back.
The Little Season was coming to an end as Christmas was now only a few weeks away. Although supposedly less demanding than the season proper, it was not proving a success for Frances and Lady Lilley was already losing patience after a particularly dismal social call.
“I did try .”
“You did not try at all!” cried Lady Lilley, her temper beginning to rise at Frances’ stubborn insistence. “You were all but mute, Frances, indeed I could see Lady Carlisle beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with you.”
“Her perfume was overwhelming, and she would not stop talking.”
“Her perfume is from Paris, and she was paying a social call, of course she would talk! Did you expect us all to sit in silence together?”
“That would have been more agreeable,” muttered Frances, not daring to speak out loud for fear of increasing her mother’s wrath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Frances.
“Of course. You never do say anything. One might think you a dumb animal in a frock brought into the drawing room. Dash has more to say for himself than you do in company.”
Dash the spaniel, hearing his name, came forward wagging his tail and whimpered with affection when Lady Lilley caressed his ears.
“You see? He speaks more than you do.”
Frances held her tongue with some effort. Antagonising her mother too far was not wise when she had a favour to ask. “Might I go and visit Lord Barrington until the season begins in earnest?” she asked.
“How are you supposed to make the most of there being fewer ladies in town during the Little Season if you run away to Margate again? You are not likely to meet anyone worth knowing there… unless you have?” asked Lady Lilley, suddenly hopeful. “ Have you met someone, Frances? Is there a young man in Margate to whom you have formed an attachment?”
“No, of course not.”
“But you said Mr Mowatt was there on your last visit, was he not a suitable person?”
“I’m sure he is suitable,” said Frances. “He has no interest in me, however.”
Lady Lilley sighed.
“Can I go?”
“I suppose if you were not much seen until the season proper, it might be for the best.” said Lady Lilley. “It might make you look… well, anyway, yes, you may go and visit Lord Barrington. Let us hope he remembers you when he dies. You have spent more time with him than any of his other young relations.”
To Frances this sounded positively grasping, but she knew better than to say so, instead hurriedly leaving the room and instructing Deborah to pack before her mother could change her mind.