Chapter Six The Last Ball of Lady Evangeline
By breakfast the next morning, it had become clear that Lantern House was divided into two opinions concerning Marianne Vale’s attendance at Lady Honoria Datchworth’s evening assembly, though the division, like most divisions among women who had learned to survive within respectable walls, was less a quarrel than an arrangement of anxieties.
Mrs Finch was against it on principle.
Beatrice Ashcombe was for it with enthusiasm, which did not recommend the scheme to anyone cautious.
Clara Winslow considered it necessary and therefore unpleasant, which was often the truest judgement of any plan.
Mrs Alderley had agreed to accompany Marianne upon being told only three things: that there would be chandeliers, that Lord Ashmont might be present, and that she would be permitted to wear the pearl combs her nephew’s wife considered too youthful for her.
She declared herself ready for war at once and asked whether the enemy preferred whist or quadrilles.
Helena Vane alone held her opinion with sufficient calm that Marianne trusted it least.
They were in Lady Theodosia’s study, where morning light slanted across the desk and the card from Madame Celeste lay beside the folded message that had changed the direction of their inquiry.
The rain of the previous evening had washed London into a deceptive brightness.
From the garden came the drip of water from the bare rose canes and the faint scraping of Tom inspecting the rear wall for the fourth time.
Inside, Lantern House carried its tension neatly.
Doors opened and closed with care. Servants spoke in lowered voices.
The Halgrave men, still placed beyond the square, had become part of the household’s irritation, if not its trust.
Marianne stood at the desk with Lady Theodosia’s note before her.
E.R. — last ball — blue silk refused, white worn, C. altered account. Thursday room after supper? Ask the woman who dressed her. Not the maid. The maker.
Beside it lay the card dropped by the watcher.
Ask Madame Celeste who dressed Evangeline for her last ball.
It was almost too direct, and therefore suspect. A clue so conveniently delivered might be bait. Yet bait, Lady Theodosia had often said, still revealed what the trapper wished to catch.
Sebastian Rookwood stood near the hearth, dressed for morning calls but looking as though no social custom had the right to exist while his sister’s name remained unresolved.
He had arrived at ten precisely, which Marianne had pointedly not praised, though she had noticed.
He had brought with him an additional copy of the payments from Evangeline’s trust and a list of men once attached to the private dining circles of the Corinthian Rooms. He had also brought, though not in writing, a fixed determination that Marianne was not to attend that evening’s assembly.
It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to state this, because he had learned to approach command by way of caution.
He said now, “Lady Honoria Datchworth’s rooms will be crowded with precisely the sort of people who ruined Evangeline and profited by silence afterward.
Ashmont will very likely attend. If he does not, others of his circle will.
Miss Vale has already been threatened by name.
I fail to see the wisdom of presenting her before them. ”
“You fail to see it,” Marianne replied, “because you are looking at the matter from the centre of the room.”
His gaze turned to her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that when you enter a ballroom, the room sees you. Conversations alter. People arrange their expressions. Those with secrets either approach to manage you or retreat to avoid notice. You may command attention, Your Grace, but attention is rarely honest.”
“Whereas your invisibility is?”
“Frequently.”
Beatrice, seated on the edge of Lady Theodosia’s old chair despite Mrs Finch’s continued disapproval of anyone using it too casually, nodded with satisfaction. “That is an excellent point.”
Mrs Finch, who stood by the door with her arms folded, said, “It is an excellent point that may yet get her murdered in satin.”
“I shall not wear satin,” Marianne said.
“That is not the comfort you suppose.”
Helena looked from Marianne to Sebastian.
“Lady Honoria’s assembly is useful because it is not a formal Almack’s night and not a private dinner.
It will be large enough for movement, small enough for conversation, and respectable enough that our enemies will not expect open inquiry.
Mrs Alderley’s invitation includes permission for a companion. ”
Sebastian’s brows drew together. “Miss Vale cannot pass as a hired companion to Mrs Alderley without attracting notice, given my public association with her yesterday and at Halgrave House.”
“I shall not pass as hired,” Marianne said. “Mrs Alderley has a distant cousin who cannot attend due to a severe chill. I am to appear as Miss Marianne Vale of Shropshire, a poor relation assisting her.”
Mrs Alderley lifted her ear trumpet. “Am I related to Shropshire?”
“No, ma’am,” Clara said.
“Never mind. I have always found counties less troublesome than people.”
Sebastian looked unimpressed. “This is absurd.”
“Most of society is,” Marianne said. “We need not let that prevent its usefulness.”
He took one step toward the desk, then stopped, as if remembering that proximity did not improve the force of a bad argument.
“Miss Vale, a quiet woman near the wall may hear more than a duke in the centre of the room. I understand your reasoning. I even accept that it has merit. But a quiet woman may also be cornered, insulted, followed, compromised, or worse, without half the room noticing until the damage is done.”
“Then I shall stand near Mrs Alderley, who can hear scandal through closed doors and has never yet permitted a man to corner anyone without making it a public event.”
Mrs Alderley smiled. “I once struck a colonel with a reticule.”
“He deserved it,” Helena said.
“He did.”
Sebastian did not smile. His eyes were fixed upon Marianne, and for a moment the others seemed to recede. She knew that look now. It was not merely opposition. It was fear dressed as authority and angry at the poor fit.
“I am not Evangeline,” she said quietly.
His mouth tightened.
“No,” he answered. “You have made that plain.”
“Then trust that I know how to use what I am.”
“And what is that?”
“A woman most people do not bother to fear.”
Something moved in his expression, reluctant and unwillingly admiring. “They should.”
Marianne had no immediate answer to that.
Helena, wisely, intervened. “We begin with Madame Celeste. If her information makes the assembly unnecessary, we reconsider. If not, Miss Vale attends under Mrs Alderley’s protection.
Your Grace will be present in your own right.
You will not appear to escort Miss Vale, but you will not ignore her should attention turn dangerous. ”
Sebastian’s gaze did not leave Marianne. “And if I judge the danger too great?”
“Then,” Marianne said, “you will be wrong privately and silent publicly until we leave.”
Beatrice made a small delighted sound.
Mrs Finch muttered something about all of them going mad in company.
Sebastian looked as though he wished to take the entire household to task and had discovered, again, that Lantern House did not arrange itself conveniently for discipline.
“Very well,” he said at last.
Marianne almost commented upon the concession. She resisted. Wisdom had not deserted her entirely.
Madame Celeste’s establishment stood on Bond Street behind windows arranged with such exacting elegance that Marianne suspected the gowns within had better social prospects than many of the women who wore them.
Fine muslins, silks, gauzes and velvets were displayed like promises: of admiration, reinstatement, conquest, youth restored, youth improved, sorrow made becoming, marriage secured, scandal softened, consequence heightened.
A modiste’s window was never merely cloth. It was strategy with ribbons.
Marianne entered shortly after noon with Mrs Alderley and Sebastian.
The Duke’s presence caused an immediate rearrangement of the shop.
Two young assistants stiffened into courtesy.
A third nearly dropped a length of lavender silk.
From behind a half-curtain emerged Madame Celeste herself, a woman of perhaps fifty with silver-threaded dark hair, sharp black eyes, and the posture of a queen temporarily consenting to trade.
She looked first at Sebastian, then at Mrs Alderley’s bonnet, then at Marianne’s gown, and in that order assessed title, eccentricity, and economy.
“Your Grace,” she said, sinking into a curtsy that managed to be deep without being submissive. “This is an honour.”
Sebastian bowed. “Madame Celeste.”
“And Mrs Alderley.” The modiste’s eyes warmed. “It has been some years since I had the pleasure of seeing you.”
Mrs Alderley lifted her trumpet. “What has she said?”
“She remembers you, ma’am,” Marianne said.
“Does she? How alarming.”
Madame Celeste’s mouth curved. “No lady forgets the garnet velvet, madam.”
Mrs Alderley beamed. “I was magnificent.”
“You were.”
Then Madame Celeste’s gaze moved to Marianne. “And this lady?”
“Miss Vale,” Sebastian said.
Only that. No explanation. No reduction. No employment. Marianne noticed. She wished she did not.
Madame Celeste noticed more. Her eyes narrowed faintly, not with disapproval but interest. She had dressed women for decades; she understood that names without definitions could be invitations or warnings.
“How may I be of service?” she asked.
Sebastian removed the card from his pocket and placed it upon the polished counter.
Madame Celeste looked at it.
For the first time, her composure altered.
Not much. But the fingers resting near the edge of the counter drew back as if the card had been heated.
“Where did you obtain this?”
“From a man watching Lantern House,” Marianne said.