My thoughts raced as panic took hold of me. I watched Alice in the mirror, arranging my hair, and I suddenly remembered looking into a different mirror, years ago, and watching Eleanor get ready for a ball.
“You are quite pretty,” I told her, watching from the bed as our maid Mary pinned her hair into place. I was lying on my stomach, my chin propped on my hand. Eleanor and I looked much like each other and quite like our mother—the same dark hair, the same hazel eyes. In noticing Eleanor’s beauty, I was also hoping for my own, at some future day. I was fourteen, and she was sixteen. I was not old enough to go to the ball, but I hoped to be at least as beautiful as she was in two years’ time.
“With whom do you think you will dance tonight?”
She turned her head, watching Mary’s work in the mirror. “I think I will dance with whomever I choose, of course.”
I frowned at her. “You cannot choose. You must be chosen.”
She laughed, and her gaze cut into me. “You are too young to under-stand.” I frowned harder, hating the condescension in her voice. But before I could make a retort, Mary stood back and asked, “How is that, Miss Eleanor?”
Eleanor looked at her hair, turning this way and that, for what seemed like a long time, before nodding and thanking Mary, who left the room. And only then did I say, “I am not much younger than you, you know. You could be nice and train me so that I will know what I’m doing when I am your age.”
Eleanor faced me, a kind smile lifting her lips. “Of course I will train you, Kitty. But I don’t have time tonight. I will only tell you this: you are always in 79
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control. A man may think he has chosen you as his interest, but you will be the one to turn his head.”
“What do you think, miss?” Alice’s voice brought me back from my reverie. I turned my head this way and that, just as I had seen Eleanor do, and then I smiled faintly and said, “It is very nice. Thank you.”
Alice let out what sounded like a sigh of relief as she stepped back.
It was time, then. As I made my way downstairs, I thought of Eleanor’s words. She had never taught me any more than that, for I had stopped asking her by the time I was old enough, in her opinion, to know such things. But if there was anyone in the world who could accomplish this goal, it was Eleanor. So if I could simply behave the way I had seen her behave, I would be on the right road to success. I breathed deeply, telling myself it would all work out, but my heart would not slow down, and my hands would not stop their trembling.
The drawing room was already crowded when I made my way to its grand doors after winding through the west wing and down two flights of stairs. Sylvia saw me as soon as I entered and took hold of my arm.
“Come. Let me introduce you,” she said, pulling me into the room.
The fire was too hot, the room too crowded, and the stuffiness of the air weighed on me. Heat prickled through my long gloves, and I wished for a fan. There were so many gowns and so many shoulders and so many feathered headdresses. I was not prepared for the new London styles here.
I had heard of them, but I had not seen them before. The effect was dis-concerting. I felt like a bird who had wandered into some strange flock, surrounded by a different species.
And there were so many gentlemen here to choose from. How could I select three? And how would I know which three would be the most likely to propose to me? The realities of my bargain struck me again, and I regretted ever making that deal with Mama. This was overwhelming.
Regret made my steps falter, and I turned this way and that, looking for something besides shoulders and backs and feathers and struggling to breathe in this hot, stifling room. Then my gaze, in my panic, rested on 80
a familiar sight. The dark hair caught my eye, then the grey eyes, and the crease next to his mouth, his face tilted down, a smile beginning to form.
And I saw the person he was smiling at: Miss St. Claire, who was standing too close to him and speaking to him, her body leaning toward his. Her eyes seeming to twinkle in this light.
The sight burned through my regret and indecision and doubt; it strengthened my resolve. I would win my three proposals, and I would leave for India, and the sooner, the better. If I had known she would be here—if I had known that I would have to watch them together, and be a witness to their courtship—I would not have come.
Sylvia stopped leading me and turned my attention to the two gentlemen standing before her. “Mr. Brandon and his son, Mr. Thomas Brandon.”
Ah. Sylvia’s Mr. Brandon. My interest piqued, I pushed aside my own concerns and turned my full attention to the handsome young man in front of me. He had brown hair, nice eyes, and a wide, infectious smile. I cast a sideways glance at Sylvia, thinking, Well done, my friend. A happy looking gentleman with an appreciation for Shakespeare and a fondness for my best friend? I could not be more pleased. For Sylvia’s sake, I tried not to grin.
His father, the elder Mr. Brandon, was not half so enthusiastic about being there. He looked as if he would be much more comfortable in a study, like my father. This was clearly a man of quiet habits.
His son, however, was not. He rubbed his hands together and eagerly said, “I cannot wait to explore the coast tomorrow. And was that a ruined abbey we passed, just south of here a mile or so?”
Sylvia nodded, and his face lit up even more.
“We should take a picnic there! Tomorrow!” He looked from Sylvia to me and back. “What say you?”
I liked his enthusiasm. “I would like nothing better.”
The younger Mr. Brandon turned to his father. “And you, Father?
Will you join us?”
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The elder Mr. Brandon hesitated, then said in a quiet voice, “The air is so chilly here, right by the ocean.”
“But we shall not let that stop us, Father. Not when there is adventure to be had!”
I grinned at this younger Mr. Brandon. Here was a man I could relate to. Here was a kindred spirit. I glanced at Sylvia and beamed when I saw the besotted smile on her face. I was flattered, really. She had chosen a man very much like me in temperament. It was meant to be a successful match, without a doubt. Sylvia and I had grown up together, and we were the dearest of friends. We balanced each other, complemented each other.
So undoubtedly this Mr. Brandon would be perfect for her.
“It is settled, then,” said the son. “A picnic tomorrow! Let us hope for clear skies.”
“Indeed,” Sylvia said, pulling on my arm. “Excuse us. I have more guests to greet.”
The men nodded and bowed, and I noticed as we walked away that the elder Mr. Brandon’s gaze lingered on us, following us. A thought came to me—an idea. “Where is Mrs. Brandon?” I asked Sylvia quietly.
“Mr. Brandon is a widower,” she replied.
I smiled to myself. A widower was always on the hunt for a wife. And older gentlemen were much quicker to propose than younger gentlemen, or so I had heard. The elder Mr. Brandon might be a very good possibility for my bargain. And I would be helping Sylvia in the process, by keeping him occupied so that she could claim the full attention of his son, her admirer. Perhaps my situation was not quite so dire as I had thought.
By the time Sylvia had introduced me to all the guests, I had two more possibilities to consider for my bargain. Besides the elder Mr.
Brandon, I had chosen a younger, nervous-looking gentleman named Mr.
Dyer, and a Mr. Pritchard, who had recently returned from India. My thoughts only turned from my goal when Sylvia introduced me to Herr and Frau Spohr, musicians from Germany.
“Herr Spohr is a composer,” she said, after the introduction. “And we 82
heard the most lovely duet performed by him and his wife in London on the clarinet and harp. They were very generous to prolong their stay in our country to come here and grace us with their music.”
Herr Spohr was a middle-aged man with hair that looked untamed.
His wife was younger than he, with rich brown hair and a quiet but elegant air.