Mary Crawford’s Debut
MARY CRAWFORD’S DEBUT
The evening rolled in with a thick London fog, the oil lamps emitting weak halos of light against the wet cobblestone streets.
Inside the ballroom of Admiral Crawford’s sprawling Mayfair house, however, everything and everyone glittered.
A sea of silks and satin ebbed and flowed as guests moved to the strains of a quadrille that seemed to go on and on.
The air was heavy with the rustic, honey scent of waxed candles and sweet perfumes.
But too many bodies, she thought as she cast away from her dance partner.
The plain-faced gentleman was suitably rich and amiable, in his way, but not handsome enough.
And the poor dear stuttered. Two things Mary Crawford would not suffer.
When the steps brought her back to Mr Talbot, the dance ended, and she dipped into a polite curtsey.
Mary smiled carefully. “Enchanté,” and she returned to her closest friend and confidante, her former governess, Lily Robinson, who watched the dancing from the periphery.
Lily’s betrothed was away at sea, and until his return and they married, she would remain with Mary as her companion.
Tonight was no ordinary gathering. A ball in celebration of Mary Crawford’s seventeenth birthday—a momentous occasion, for Mary was no longer the frightened young ward of the admiral.
With only her infirm aunt and a too-young governess, who was a mere eight years older than herself, to guide her formative years, Mary’s autonomy flourished.
She had blossomed into a beauty of remarkable proportions with light eyes, high cheekbones, and a pert wit (sharp as a guillotine, her uncle liked to joke) that had already gained her slight approbation among those in the know.
She was an heiress, of course, her fortune safely in the four percents, having grown substantially in the years since her arrival with her brother, Henry, at the house in Hill Street as a heartbroken ten-year-old orphan.
This was indeed her formal debut into society, the occasion marking her eligibility for courtship.
Despite her twenty thousand pounds and luxurious street address, Mary remained very much her own creature: spoiled and with a wilful independence that refused to be shackled by the usual expectations of polite society.
Charming, witty, and self-possessed of her pleasing countenance, Mary had become, in many respects, the very essence of a heroine in training.
“Oh, Mary,” Lily said, her slim fingers clutching her glass of punch, “you must not look so glum. This is your night. You ought to enjoy it.”
Amused and exasperated with her long-time friend, Mary said, “Do I look glum? I am delighting in the occasion.” She coolly nodded to a corner of uniformed navy officers.
“Though you well know I do not enjoy so many of my uncle’s guests.
You are engaged to the only good dancer in His Majesty’s Navy, and he is not even here.
My slippers have been trodden upon for half the night. ”
With good humour, Lily said, “Nonsense, my dear, you must take every opportunity to display your charms to the officers.”
Mary had lived in her uncle’s home long enough to be quite familiar with his preferences in women and drink once his wife had become bedridden—and the antics of his officer friends after Mary had supposedly retired for the evening.
Nor had she missed how some of those same men whom she had known since girlhood looked at her when she shed her schoolroom frocks for more elegant necklines.
She fingered the sapphire necklace that her aunt and uncle had presented to her in her aunt Crawford’s bedchamber before the guests arrived and listened to the purr of conversation punctuated by occasional laughter…
the sound of crystal glasses clinking… the rustling of gowns as young ladies curtseyed to their partners or made the rounds of the room.
On the whole, she supposed, her ball was a prodigious success.
And yet, as was her way, she wanted more.
Her scrutiny slid from the crush to a latecomer, flickering with a curiosity she determined to hide once she glimpsed his tall person.
His countenance was the epitome of aristocratic sangfroid. Effortlessly elegant, Aubrey Dearlove, the Viscount Halstead, cut an impressive figure in his evening attire. His blond hair, sleek and neatly combed, framed sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes bright with intelligence.
“Ah, yes, the viscount,” Lily murmured. “Oh, Mary, is he not fearful handsome?”
She made a dismissive noise, aware of the heat she knew must be colouring her cheeks. “He is hardly more than a boy.”
But even as Mary spoke, her attention strayed to the viscount, whose blue eyes found her.
“Hardly a boy? You know as well as I that he has come into his majority, like your brother. And having just succeeded to the title… I am certain,” Lily added, “he would be most pleased to partner you in a dance, my dear. You should not be so shy. He is of the highest quality.”
“Whenever have you known me to be shy? And it is, after all, my ball.”
Mary knew she was in looks that evening, especially in her new gown.
A marvel of delicate craftsmanship, its fine silk shimmered in the glow of the hundreds of candles, the pale pink so delicate as to be mistaken for the first blush of dawn.
The bodice clung gently to her curves, with no superfluous frills to detract from her womanly virtues.
Though she wore a mask of bravado, a flutter of anxiety stirred in her breast when Henry’s fine, wealthy friend inclined his head towards her in acknowledgment.
His leisurely smile only magnified her nerves.
Despite her best efforts, she worried she looked every inch a young miss trying to find her footing in a world suddenly far too grand.
Her lips curved inconsequentially, but that felt too calculated, and she looked away.
At Lily’s raised eyebrow, a twinge of annoyance flashed in Mary’s chest. The very last thing she wanted was for anyone to know she was attracted to the young viscount.
There were, of course, a dozen reasons why she should keep her distance.
At the top of the list, the tittle-tattle of broken hearts he left behind every Season.
Halstead, the Earl of Huntingdon’s heir, was reserved in a way that both intrigued and frustrated her.
He had been reasonably civil when introduced last week in her aunt’s drawing room but had tendered her nothing more than polite conversation.
What was a gentleman if he could not see, at first glance, the genius that was Mary Crawford?
La! If anyone could hear my thoughts…
Well, there was that secret look they shared when a toady young lieutenant professed some gibberish: how she surely must be the Diamond of the Season, how her eyes sparkled, how “even the moon must envy her fine eyes.” She could hardly keep from laughing, especially after she noted the viscount’s jaw tic, and then he cut his sparkling eyes at her.
Still, she was far too intelligent to give him the satisfaction of chasing after him.
“I cannot help but discern,” Henry said suddenly, sidling up beside the ladies in good humour, “that you seem preoccupied with something. Or someone.”
“I was just admiring the view,” Mary said sweetly. Then she detected her brother’s attention linger on a woman in cream silk with a plunging bodice. “Like you…”
Henry gave a dramatic sigh, placing a hand on his chest as if wounded. “Mary, if the lady did not want us to notice her, she would not have worn that gown.”
“Who is that woman anyway, Brother?”
Her brother shrugged. “Mrs Smith-Wood.”
Lily whipped her head towards the voluptuous woman.
Mary stilled. Mrs Smith-Wood was rumoured to be her uncle’s mistress.
How could he have that woman here? With his ailing wife bed-bound upstairs? At my ball?
Mary’s fingers tightened around the sapphire pendant at her neck. Bile rose like venom, and her gaze darted to the admiral. She was relieved when the woman clasped the arm of another gentleman across the room from her uncle. Maybe she was mistaken? Or was her uncle’s friend merely a blind?
Mary knew better than to cause a scene and cut her eyes to Henry, who, by all accounts, was a confirmed flirt, “Behave this evening, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Pish! I am nothing if not the quintessence of goodness. Tell her, Miss Robinson,” Henry replied, winking at Lily, who only shook her head, knowing what a hopeless tease Henry Crawford was.
“But my concern, Mary, is for the gentlemen who may take interest in you tonight. If I could only ensure that none of them is half as astute as you—” His expression shifted over her shoulder, his face lighting up.
“Ah, there you are, Halstead, my dear fellow.”
The viscount came to stand before them and towered over Mary. He performed a courtly bow, amusement playing on his lips. “May I say I had hoped you would wear pink. The colour becomes you.”
He remembers the pink gown I wore last week?
Mary hoped the colour she felt rise from her chest to her cheeks did not match her gown.
His black coat, tailored to perfection, emphasised his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He exuded a natural confidence, making him the object of admiring glances from other ladies and even some gentlemen in the room.
“Miss Crawford?”
Realising she had not thanked him for the compliment, she regained her self-possession. “Merci beaucoup. I trust you will forgive me if I seem a trifle preoccupied with other guests—” she gestured to a cluster of giggling ladies by the punch “who, no doubt, are eager for your attention.”