Time to go down to the drawing room. A glass of sherry would be a welcome start to the evening, Phoebe thought, fiddling with the artfully draped folds of her dress. She needed something to steady her nerves.
“You look beautiful, ma’am,” Ernestine said, delighted with the results of her work. She had drawn Phoebe’s hair up into a coil of neatly pinned rolls and curls, winding a velvet ribbon around the base. A few loose curls had been allowed to dangle down the back of her head, which felt a bit strange: she wasn’t accustomed to leaving any loose pieces in her usual hairstyles. Ernestine had finished the arrangement by pinning a small, fresh pink rose on the right side of the coil.
The new coiffure was very flattering, but the formal gown had turned out to be far less inconspicuous than Phoebe had expected. It was the pale beige of unbleached linen or natural wool, but the silk had been infused with exceptionally fine metallic threads of gold and silver, giving the fabric a pearly luster. A garland of peonies, roses, and delicate green silk leaves trimmed the deeply scooped neckline, while another flower garland caught up the gossamer-thin silk and tulle layers of the skirts at one side.
Frowning at her pale, glimmering reflection in the long oval mirror, Phoebe experimentally covered her eyes with one hand, lifted it away, and repeated the motion a couple of times. “Oh God,” she murmured aloud. She was fairly certain that a quick glance at the dress gave a brief, startling impression of near-nudity, except for the flowers. “I have to change dresses, Ernestine. Fetch the silver gray.”
“But . . . but I haven’t aired or pressed it,” the lady’s maid said in bewilderment. “And this one is so pretty on you.”
“I didn’t remember the fabric shimmered like this. I can’t go downstairs looking like a Christmas tree ornament.”
“It’s not that shiny,” the girl protested. “Other ladies will be wearing dresses with beading and spangles, and their best diamond sets.” Seeing Phoebe’s expression, she heaved a sigh. “If you want the silver gray, ma’am, I’ll do my best to have it ready soon, but you’ll still go down late.”
Phoebe groaned at the thought. “Did you pack a shawl?”
“A black one. But you’ll roast if you try to cover yourself in that. And it would look odd—you would earn more attention that way than by going as you are.”
Before Phoebe could reply, there came a knock at the door. “Oh, galoshes,” she muttered. It was hardly a curse worthy of the situation, but she’d fallen into the habit of saying it when she was around her children, which was most of the time. She sped to the corner behind the door, while Ernestine went to see who it was.
After a brief murmured exchange, the lady’s maid opened the door a bit wider, and Phoebe’s brother Ivo stuck his head inside.
“Hullo, sis,” he said casually. “You look very nice in that gold dress.”
“It’s ecru.” At his perplexed look, she repeated, “Ecru.”
“God bless you,” Ivo said, and gave her a cheeky grin as he entered the room.
Phoebe lifted her gaze heavenward. “Why are you here, Ivo?”
“I’m going to escort you downstairs, so you don’t have to go alone.”
Phoebe was so moved, she couldn’t speak. She could only stare at the eleven-year-old boy, who was volunteering to take the place her husband would have assumed.
“It was Father’s idea,” Ivo continued, a touch bashfully. “I’m sorry I’m not as tall as the other ladies’ escorts, or even as tall as you. I’m really only half an escort. But that’s still better than nothing, isn’t it?” His expression turned uncertain as he saw that her eyes were watering.
After clearing her throat, Phoebe managed an unsteady reply. “At this moment, my gallant Ivo, you tower above every other gentleman here. I’m so very honored.”
He grinned and offered her his arm in a gesture she had seen him practice in the past with their father. “The honor is mine, sis.”
In that moment, Phoebe had the briefest intimation of what Ivo would be like as a full-grown man, confident and irresistibly charming.
“Wait,” she said. “I have to decide what to do about my dress.”
“Why do you have to do something about it?”
“It’s too . . . flagrant.”
Her brother cocked his head, his gaze traveling over the dress. “Is that one of Pandora’s words?”
“No, it’s a dictionary word. It means standing out like a sore thumb.”
“Sis. You and I are always flagrant.” Ivo pointed to his red hair. “When you have this, you have no choice but to be noticed. Go on and wear that dress. I like it, and Gabriel will like it that you look pretty for his wedding-eve dinner.”
A commanding speech, coming from a boy not yet twelve. Phoebe studied him with fond pride. “Very well, you’ve talked me into it,” she said reluctantly.
“Goodness me,” Ernestine exclaimed, sounding relieved.
Phoebe smiled at her. “Don’t wait up here for me, Ernestine—take some time for yourself, and have dinner in the servants’ hall with the others.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Phoebe took Ivo’s arm and let him escort her from the room. As they proceeded to the grand central staircase, she glanced at his formal Eton suit, made with black serge trousers, a white waistcoat, and a black satin bow tie. “You’ve graduated to long trousers,” she exclaimed.
“A year early,” Ivo boasted.
“How did you talk Mother into it?”
“I told her a fellow has his pride, and as far as I was concerned, wearing short trousers is like going about with your pants at half-mast. Mother laughed so hard, she had to set down her teacup, and the next day the tailor came to measure me for a suit. Now the Hunt twins can’t make fun of my knees anymore.” The fourteen-year-old boys, Ashton and Augustus, were the youngest offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Simon Hunt, who had been close friend to the Challons since before Phoebe had been born.
“The twins made fun of you?” Phoebe asked in surprised concern. “But you’ve always been great friends with them.”
“Yes, that’s what fellows do. We call our friends names like ‘Spoony’ or ‘Knobby-knees.’ The better the friend, the worse the insult.”