Stephanie and the Wicked Deceiver (Wild Marchmonts #2)

20. A Sample Chapter of Honoria and The Family Reputation

Blue Slippers

‘He has arrived!’ said Serena, kneeling on the window seat of their bedchamber. She made a pretty picture there with her sprigged muslin dress foaming around her and one silk-stockinged foot still on the floor, but her sister Honoria was too frozen with fear to notice.

‘Oh, no,’ said Honoria, moving forward in a dull fashion to join her. Her elder brother Benedict had been sitting with one leg draped negligently over the arm of the only comfortable chair in the room and now rose languidly to join his younger sisters. After the season in London, Dickie had begun to ape the manners of Beau Brummel and his cronies, polite, but slightly bored with the world. At one and twenty, it seemed a trifle contrived, even allowing that his long limbs and handsome face put many a town beau to shame.

Serena’s dark eyes danced wickedly, ‘Here comes the conquest of your triumphant season, your soon-to-be-fiancé.’

Dickie grinned, rather more like their childhood companion, ‘Your knight in shining armour. If only you could remember him.’

‘It isn’t funny.’

Serena laughed and turned back to the window as she heard the door of the carriage open and the steps let down by Timothy, the one and only footman that Fenton Manor could boast.

‘Oh, how did it happen?’ Honoria said for the fifteenth time that morning.

Someone in the crowd had said, ‘Mr Allison is approaching. But he never dances!’ In confusion, she had looked around, and saw the throng around her grow still and part as her hostess approached with a tall gentleman. With all eyes turned to her she stiffened in every sinew. She remembered the voice of Lady Carlisle introducing Mr Allison as a desirable partner, she remembered her mother thrusting her forward as she was frozen with timidity. She remembered his hand lead her to her first waltz of the season. She had turned to her mother for protection as his hand snaked around her waist and had seen that matron grip her hands together and glow with pride. This was Lady Fenton’s shining moment, if not her daughter’s. Word had it that Mr Allison had danced only thrice this season, each time with his married friends. Lost in the whirl of the dance, she had answered his remarks with single syllables, looking no higher than his chin. A dimpled chin, strong, she remembered vaguely. And though she had previously seen Mr. Allison at a distance, the very rich and therefore very interesting Mr Allison, with an estate grander than many a nobleman, she could not remember more than that he was held to be handsome. (As she told Serena this later, her sister remarked that rich men were very often held to be handsome, strangely related to the size of their purse.)

There was the waltz; there had been a visit to her father in the London house; her mother had informed her of Mr Allison’s wishes and that she was to receive his addresses the next afternoon. He certainly visited the next afternoon, and Honoria had been suffered to serve him his tea and her hand had shaken so much that she had kept her eyes on the cup for the rest of the time. He had not proposed, which her mother thought of as a pity, but here she had been saved by Papa, who had thought that Mr Allison should visit them in the country where his daughter and he might be more at their leisure to know each other. ‘For she is a little shy with new company and I should wish her perfectly comfortable before she receives your addresses,’ Sir Ranalph had told him, as Honoria’s mama had explained.

Serena, when told, had thought it a wonderful joke. To be practically engaged to someone you could not remember! She laughed because she trusted to good-natured Papa to save Honoria from the match if it should prove unwanted; her sister had only to say “no”.

‘Why on earth do you make such a tragedian of yourself, Orry,’ had said Serena once Honoria had poured her story out, ‘After poor Henrietta Madeley’s sad marriage, Papa has always said that to marry with such parental compulsion is scandalously cruel.’

And Honoria had mopped up her tears and felt a good deal better, buoyed by Serena’s strength of mind. To be sure, there was the embarrassment to be endured of giving disappointment, but she resolved to do it if Mr Allison’s aura of grandeur continued to terrify her.

‘And then,’ her sister had continued merrily, ‘the rich Mr Allison may just turn out to be as handsome as his purse and as good natured as Papa — and you will fall head over heels with him after all.’

The morning after, Honoria had gone for a walk before breakfast, in much better spirits. As she came up the steps to re-enter by the breakfast room, she carelessly caught her new French muslin (fifteen and sixpence the yard, Mama had told her) on the roses that grew on a column. If she took her time and did not pull, she may be able to rescue herself without damage to the dress. She could hear Mama and Papa chatting and gave it no mind until Mama’s voice became serious.

‘My dear Ranalph, will you not tell me?’

‘Shall there be muffins this morning, my dear?’ said Papa cheerfully.

‘You did not finish your mutton last night and you are falsely cheerful this morning. Tell me, my love.’

‘You should apply for a position at Bow Street, my dear. Nothing escapes you.’ She heard the sound of an embrace.

‘Diversionary tactics, sir, are futile.’

Honoria knew she should not be privy to this, but she was still detaching her dress, thorn by thorn. It was incumbent on her to make a noise, so that they might know she was there, but as she decided to do so, she was frozen by Papa’s next words.

‘Mr Allison’s visit will resolve all, I’m sure.’

Honoria closed her mouth, automatically continuing to silently pluck her dress from the rose bush, anxious to be away.

‘Resolve what, dearest?’ Honoria could picture her mama on Papa’s knee.

‘Well, there have been extra expenses – from the Brighton property.’ Honoria knew that this was where her uncle Wilbert lived, her father’s younger brother. (Dickie had explained that he was a friend of the Prince Regent, which sounded so well to the girls, but Dickie had shaken his head loftily. ‘You girls know nothing. Unless you are as rich as a Maharajah, it’s ruinous to be part of that set.’)

Her father continued, ‘Now, now. All is well. If things do not take with Mr Allison, we shall just have to cut our cloth a little, Madame.’ He breathed. ‘But, Cynthia, I’m afraid another London Season is not to be thought of.’

Honoria felt instant guilt. Her own season had been at a rather later age than that of her more prosperous friends, and she had not been able to understand why Serena and she could not have had it together, for they borrowed each other’s clothes all the time. Serena’s intrepid spirit would have buoyed hers too and made her laugh, and would have surely helped with her crippling timidity. But when she had seen how many dresses had been required — one day alone she had changed from morning gown to carriage dress to luncheon half dress, then riding habit and finally evening dress. And with so many of the same people at balls, one could not make do - Mama had insisted on twenty evening gowns as the bare minimum. However doughty with a needle the sisters might be, this was beyond their scope, and London dressmakers did not come cheap. Two such wardrobes were not to be paid for by the estate’s income in one year. Honoria had accidentally seen the milliner’s bill for her season and shuddered to think of it — her bonnets alone had been ruinously expensive. She had looked forward to her second season, where her wardrobe could be adapted at very little cost to give it a new look and Serena would also have her fill of new walking dresses and riding habits, bonnets and stockings. If she were in London with her sister, she might actually enjoy it.

‘Poor Serena. What are her chances of a suitable match in this restricted neighbourhood?’ Mama continued, ‘And indeed, Honoria, if she does not like this match. Though how she could fail to like a charming, handsome man like Mr Allison is beyond me,’ she finished.

‘Do not forget rich,’ teased her husband.

‘When I think of the girls who tried to catch him all season! And then he came to us – specifically asked to be presented to her as a partner for the waltz, as dear Lady Carlisle informed me later — but she showed no triumph at all. And now, she will not give an opinion. She is strangely reticent about the subject.’

‘Well, well, it is no doubt her shyness. She will be more relaxed when she sees Allison among the family.’

‘So much rests upon it.’ There was a pause. ‘Dickie’s commission?’

He laughed, but it sounded sour from her always cheerful Papa. ‘Wilbert has promised to buy it from his next win at Faro.’

‘Hah!’ said Mama bitterly.

Honoria was free. She went towards the breakfast room rather noisily.

‘Are there muffins?’ she asked gaily.

‘How on earth do you come to be engaged to him ?’

Honoria was jolted back to the present by Serena’s outcry. She gazed in dread over her sister’s dark curls and saw a sober figure in a black coat and dull breaches, with a wide-brimmed, antediluvian hat walking towards the house. She gave an involuntary giggle.

‘Oh, that is only Mr Scribster, his friend.’

‘ He you remember!’ laughed Serena. ‘Is he as dull as his hat?’Honoria spotted another man exiting the chaise, this one in biscuit coloured breaches above shiny white-topped Hessian boots. His travelling coat almost swept the ground, and Serena said, ‘Well, he’s more the thing at any rate. Pity we cannot see his face. You should be prepared. However, he walks like a handsome man.’ She giggled, ‘Or at all events, a rich one.’

The door behind them had opened. ‘Serena, you will guard your tongue,’ said their mama. Lady Fenton, also known as Lady Cynthia (as she was the daughter of a peer) was the pattern card from which her beautiful daughters were formed. A dark-haired, plump, but stylish matron who looked as good as one could, she said of herself, when one had borne seven bouncing babies. Now she smiled, though, and Honoria felt another bar in her cage. How could she dash her mother’s hopes? ‘Straighten your dresses, girls, and come downstairs.’

Benedict winked and walked off with his parent.

There were no looking glasses in their bedroom, so as not to foster vanity. But as they straightened the ribbons of the new dresses Mama had thought appropriate to the occasion, they acted as each other’s glass and pulled at hair ribbons and curls as need be. The Misses Fenton looked as close to twins as sisters separated by two years could, dark curls and dark slanted eyes and lips that curled at the corners to give them the appearance of a smile even in repose. Their brother Benedict said they resembled a couple of cats, but then he would say that. Serena had told him to watch his tongue or they might scratch.

The children, Norman, Edward, Cedric and Angelica, were not to be admitted to the drawing room — but they bowled out of the nursery to watch the sisters descend the stairs in state. As Serena tripped on a cricket ball, she looked back and stuck her tongue out at the grinning eight-year-old Cedric. Edward, ten, cuffed his younger brother and threw him into the nursery by the scruff of his neck. The eldest, Norman, twelve, a beefy chap, lifted little three-year-old Angelica who showed a disposition to follow her sisters. On the matter of unruly behaviour today, Mama had them all warned.

As the stairs turned on the landing, the sisters realised there was no one in the large square hall to see their dignified descent, so Serena tripped down excitedly, whilst her sister made the slow march of a hearse follower. As Serena gestured her down, Honoria knew that her sister’s excitement came from a lack of society in their neighbourhood. She herself had enjoyed a London season, whilst Serena had never been further than Harrogate. She was down at last and they walked to the door of the salon, where she shot her hand out to delay Serena. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. Oh well, this time she should at least see what he looked like.

Two gentlemen stood by the fire with their backs to the door, conversing with Papa and Dickie. As the door opened, they turned and Honoria was focused on the square-shouldered gentleman, whose height rivalled Benedict’s and quite dwarfed her sturdy papa. His face was nearly in view, Sir Ranalph was saying, ‘These are my precious jewels!’ The face was visible for only a moment before Serena gave a yelp of surprise and moved forward a pace. Honoria turned to her.

‘But it’s you!’ Serena cried.

Everyone looked confused and a little shocked, not least Serena who grasped her hands in front of her and regarded the carpet. There seemed to be no doubt that she had addressed Mr Allison.

Honoria could see him now, the dimpled chin and strong jaw she remembered, and topped by a classical nose, deep set hazel eyes and the hairstyle of a Roman Emperor. Admirable, she supposed, but with a smile dying on his lips, he had turned from relaxed guest to stuffed animal, with only his eyes moving between one sister and another. His gaze fell, and he said the most peculiar thing.

‘Blue slippers.’