Thursday, April 19, 1821
Earlier, that Morning
R etired Sergeant Enoch Hartfield, 1st Battalion of the Coldstream Guard, sat bundled in the library at his home at 99 Gower Street in the Bloomsbury section of London. Christina adjusted her father’s tea with a splash of brandy, or so he thought.
“Would you like a biscuit? You must be hungry. You haven’t eaten.” She remained by his side, watching over him like a mother attending to a child, ensuring he finished the enriched tea.
“Nothing at the moment.” He attempted to shift into a more comfortable position. Plagued by a severe back injury, there was no escaping the constant ache, only a position of less discomfort.
Christina stood guard, holding pillows and rolled blankets, prepared to cushion his back for support.
“You bought the flowers?” he asked as she helped settle him.
“Tulips, as you asked.” She gestured toward the table where she had set the vase of flowers.
“They’re your mother’s favorite flower. It’s an extravagance, but she deserves them.”
“Yes, she does.” Christina stood, making sure her father was comfortable.
“Mr. and Mrs. Murthy have been understanding and a godsend.” Her father let out a sigh, finally settled. He gazed pensively at the floor, lines of worry etched deeply on his face.
A recent financial setback and mounting medical bills caused Christina’s parents to make some difficult decisions. No one, not even their banker, could have predicted that F they confront them head-on. They pull apart situations and examine them from every angle, deliberate with trusted confidantes, and ultimately forge their own path. These are your roots, your legacy. And I have unwavering confidence in you.”
As the words settled in her heart, Christina felt a surge of resolve burning away any doubt. She was more than an individual; she was a continuation of a lineage that thrived on courage and determination. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s belief in her echoed like a promise she vowed to honor.
“Thank you.” Christina’s voice was steady. “You are right. We Hartfield women are a stubborn but smart bunch.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon squeezed her hand, and they both sat quietly and enjoyed the boats on the lake.
“I appreciate your attentive ear and guidance.” Christina faced Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “If there is anything I can do to help you, please call upon me.”
“That is kind of you,” Christina observed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s scrutinizing eyes, which seemed to measure her, contemplating her next course of action with a thoughtful gaze. Finally, she appeared to come to a conclusion. “I find myself in a bit of a situation,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon admitted. “I cannot attend any of the Society’s events we’ve planned.”
“Oh, dear, after working so hard. Is there anything I can do? Except for any that you received today, the responses have been noted on the list, and the place cards have been made.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gazed at her as a thought blossomed. “Could you take my place?”
Christina tilted her head, her expression registering surprise. “Me?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice held an edge of urgency. “This is the charity event of the season. You know the guest list as well as I do.”
Christina shifted and sat up straight. She had assisted in social situations before, but this was different. The Society’s gala held at Hazelton House was the pinnacle of the Society’s annual events. It demanded precision.
“Lady Hazelton and her staff are well equipped to handle the events, but she likes to have someone who knows the guest list and plans available should she be needed. Maintaining the right atmosphere is crucial, so you’ll need to keep an eye on everything from the seating arrangements to the refreshments. Only a little more than what you did at your sister’s wedding. Can you do this for me, Christina?”
Christina’s mind raced. The board member’s luncheon was manageable. “I can attend tomorrow’s luncheon,” she offered, her voice steady.
“Actually…” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gaze never wavered. “You’ll attend all the events—the luncheon, the soirées, and the grand gala.” Christina’s horror was no longer hidden; it painted her expression. “Make arrangements with your mother and Mrs. Murthy,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Christina hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of logistics. “I haven’t sent for my trunks,” she confessed.
“We can turn this into a business arrangement. I’ll compensate you for your time and provide you with a gown and accessories for all the occasions, which will be yours to keep. You can easily take my place even with the gentleman who was to accompany me. Your money could serve as temporary support until you secure full-time employment. There is the luncheon tomorrow. Why not attend and assess the plan? You have everything to gain.”
Christina weighed her options. She did have everything to gain. “The luncheon, you say.” She paused to consider the bold step. Everything to gain. “Very well, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. How do we proceed?”
“Come with me to Madame Pembroke’s shop on New Bond Street,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon rose from the bench. “We can discuss the project details while we select a few new ensembles for the various events.”
Christina fell into step beside her. The half-hour walk was a welcome respite—a chance to breathe before the whirlwind of social obligations consumed them. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s proposal sounded reasonable. From what she noticed of men at charity events, they stood across the room, in a group, and rarely interacted with the women who attended.
Madame Pembroke’s shop was a haven of silks, lace, and whispered dreams. The bell above the door tinkled as they entered, and Christina’s senses came alive. The scent of delicate fabrics, the soft rustle of gowns all held a promise.
Madame emerged, her eyes sharp, assessing. “Christina,” she said,” it is good to see you. I hope your sister and parents are well.”
“Madame, Miss Christina is in dire need of clothes for various social events.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood next to Christina as if she were a proud mother.
Madame smiled. “You’ve come to the correct place.” Her fingers traced the curve of Christina’s shoulder, measuring more than fabric. “Let’s see what suits you now.”
Ensembles materialized—silk, satin, velvet. Christina sampled each one, the mirror reflecting possibilities. Mrs. Dove-Lyon watched, her approval unspoken.
Christina straightened, ready to step into her role—the delicate dance of society, where gowns held secrets and threads bound destinies. She stepped out of the dressing room wearing a lovely gown for Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s approval.
And then, as if scripted, the bell on the top of the door tinkled. They both looked up as Lady Hazelton glided into the dress shop, her presence commanding attention.
“This is a delightful surprise, Lady Hazelton.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon warmly greeted her friend.
Lady Hazelton smiled in return, her gaze drawn to the jeweled hairpins on the counter. “It is good to see you, too, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Her ladyship moved closer to the counter. “Madame Pembroke, I was nearby and thought to pick up my gown. And… Well, I find I need a hairpin.”
Madame Pembroke, who had come up behind her, handed her ladyship a beautifully crafted silver hairpin with intricate filigree work and a shimmering sapphire.
“Oh, Lady Hazelton, I believe you’d look stunning with that hairpin,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon assured her.
“I have several others,” Madame Pembroke said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll bring them out.” Madame crossed the room and disappeared into the back of the shop.
Struggling, Lady Hazelton attempted to secure the hairpin into her hair. The delicate task required precision, and her fingers seemed to get in the way as she worked. It was a battle between elegance and stubborn locks—a battle she refused to lose.
“Allow me to help you.” Christina stepped forward, delicately positioning the hairpin in Lady Hazelton’s hair. Then, she presented her with a hand mirror.
With a grateful smile and a nod of appreciation, Lady Hazelton glanced in the mirror to admire the final result.
“To tell you the truth, when I came in yesterday, I thought I would buy it but deferred. Then I found myself concerned someone would snatch it up. I had to come back and get it.” Lady Hazelton gazed at Christina’s gown. “That deep shade of rose looks wonderful with your complexion.”
“Do you really think so?” Christina stood back and glanced into the cheval mirror. “Madame Pembroke chose an ethereal blue gown and a deep sapphire one for me.
“I think this one is lovely on you,” Lady Hazelton glanced across the room. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, will you be joining us for luncheon tomorrow?”
“I regret that I won’t be able to join you or attend the other events. I understand this is a very late cancellation. If you will, I would like my dear friend Miss Christina Hartfield to attend in my stead. As you are aware, she has been working with me on the event and knows it as well, if not better, than me.”
Lady Hazelton smiled at Christina. “By all means, your help will be greatly appreciated.” She turned to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “And, if you find yourself without any incumbrance, I will always have a chair for you.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled. “You are most kind.”
“Tea, ladies?” Madame Pembroke entered, holding a tea tray and various hairpins.