Chapter 13
Thirteen
There was some consternation and scolding upon Aurora’s later-than-planned arrival back in Eaton Square, and, for a moment, she feared Lady Wentworth was ready to have an attack of the vapors.
Missie then stepped in and roundly declared there was no harm done, and that Aurora was not going to go off on any more harebrained adventures (though Missie accompanied this statement with a little kick at Aurora’s ankle when it looked as if Aurora was about to open her mouth and issue a protest) and what, Mama, could they expect from this evening’s concert?
Thus distracted, Lady Wentworth relented and recovered her equanimity.
Hyacinth tut-tutted and muttered about freckles and tanned skin and went off to get some lemon juice for Aurora’s face.
In vain she protested that she had worn a bonnet, and little sunshine had reached her directly.
This only led to a lecture on the hallmarks of good breeding and the proof of a lady’s gentility resting on her pale complexion.
Aurora took a few moments of imagining herself hurrying back upstairs, unclasping the locked valise under her bed and taking out its items: a pair of men’s trousers, a man’s work shirt, and a cap into which she would stuff her hair.
The outfit was perfect for going about tasks safely on the floor of the manufactory to keep her hair or skirts from getting caught in the machinery.
In such an outfit, she might be able to escape from the house onto London’s streets and make her way home.
But she found, even though such a vision beckoned, she lacked the courage to attempt it.
Courage, Aurora, she chided herself. The heroes in Homer never had to worry about freckles and windblown hair and Lady Hinsdale. The absurdity of the observation brightened her mood before the next thought darkened it again: Achilles didn’t have to face Lady Hinsdale and the Ton, but I do.
The remainder of the afternoon passed in a combination of extreme boredom as well as tension.
While she found a certain fascination in being yanked about as Hyacinth’s brush passed not entirely gently through her hair, and as Aurora was made to turn this way and that in her new gown while last minute tucks and un-stitchings were done for it to hang perfectly upon her (well, as perfectly as nature would allow), there was a certain tedium to the proceedings which stole over her as the hours wore on, and it was still not time to leave.
Is this what I have to look forward to? Aurora asked herself.
She attempted at one point to pick up a book to read but found it snatched precipitously out of her hand by a tsking Hyacinth.
Her one respite was the cup of tea brought to her by a shyly smiling Lucy, once again returned to her regular upstairs-maid’s garb.
Aurora had to admit to herself, however, when everyone else had stepped away from their final poking and prodding, the effort had been well worth it.
She stood in front of her glass, lit by several candles flickering in the room behind her.
Her face was lightly flushed and glowing.
The rose of her dress helped bring color to her cheeks and hair.
Hyacinth had swept it up, as had been decided, with a handful of curls on either side of her face.
I am pretty. For the first time in her life, she felt so.
I am pretty. Oh, Papa, I wish you could see me.
Mama, you would be so proud. Her parents couldn’t hear her, all those miles away from London.
She knew they believed they were doing what was best, having her presentation to society managed by those whom they believed were skillful navigators and members of that company.
She missed them very much, and the abrupt ache caused her to swallow hard to retain her composure.
“Oh, miss, you are a picture!” came a soft exclamation behind her. She turned to see Lucy, clapping her hands together with delight.
Aurora stepped forward and took Lucy’s hands in hers.
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing them. And then she turned to pass into the hall and down the stairway to the grand front hall with its black-and-white marble checkerboard floor, where Lord and Lady Wentworth were waiting to escort them to Lady Hinsdale’s.
She had only reached the floor at the foot of the stairs when a slight sound behind her made her turn and look up.
There stood Missie, dressed again in blue, though this time the color of midnight.
It made her blonde hair appear almost white, as though she were the moon or some sort of miraculous star in the night sky.
The gown plunged daringly low over the tops of her breasts.
Her arms were bare and shone a chilling white.
And her hair, she had cut her hair! For Missie’s long blonde curls were gone.
Instead, flat curls framed and shaped her head, with a simple ribbon threaded around it in the same shade as her gown.
She was exquisite; she did not look real.
Aurora stared at her, feeling herself once more fading into insignificance.
The porcelain mask-like stillness was firmly fixed in place as Missie descended the staircase.
Lord Wentworth, a slight, thin man with retreating hair and the worn remnants of what must have once been striking good looks, stepped forward to greet his daughter.
With a regal nod, Missie gave her father her arm, and they led the procession out through the main doors and down the front steps to the waiting carriage below.
Hyacinth took a moment to slip a wrap around each of the young women (Lady Wentworth’s own lady’s maid looked after her) and to do a final tweak of each gown, and then she too stepped back to let them enter the carriage.
There was a feeling of suppressed excitement in the air.
Aurora could almost touch it in spite of Missie’s calculated ennui, and the shriveling of that brief moment when she herself had seemed to swim into focus as a person worthy of being seen.
Anything could happen this evening, even though she might find herself observing more than talking with anyone else.
Or dancing. There was to be a light supper and some country dances (“It is one of Lady Hinsdale’s eccentricities; she believes it breaks the ice at the beginning of the Season.
It is only because she is Lady Hinsdale that people attend.
That, and the fact the Prince of Wales has been known to make an impromptu appearance.
” This was part of one of the many speeches by Lady Wentworth to which Aurora had been subjected this afternoon.).
Next to Missie, Aurora felt entirely eclipsed.
While this gave her a pang, the increasingly heightened state of her nerves the closer they came to the destination led her to give a small sigh of gratitude.
She would be free to watch and—hopefully—learn, as everyone would be totally focused on her friend.
Maybe it will not be so terrifying, maybe it won’t be an ordeal.
Perhaps I shall even feel bold enough to look a duke in the eye.
Even Marjorie’s Papa. She remembered that military bearing and the piercing dark eyes.
Or perhaps, for this first evening, I shall remain thoroughly and blissfully invisible.
The reflection was fervent enough to be a prayer.