Let It Be Me

One

London, England

January 1824

IF Bridget Forrester had one wish in life, it would be one day, when introduced to someone new, not to hear that person cry in surprise and delight, “Oh, you must be Sarah’s sister!”

It was not a grand wish. She had no desire to be the most admired girl in the room, be festooned with diamonds and silks, or have sonnets written to the color of her eyes. But she did like to think that she was enough of her own person to be recognized as such, instead of an extension of her elder sister.

The problem was, of course, that her sister Sarah had been the most admired person in the room, festooned with diamonds and silks, with sonnets written to the color of her eyes—which technically, was also the color of Bridget’s eyes, but no one thought for a moment that those lines were composed to her.

And as she stood in the ballroom of the Newbury town house off Berkley Square, Bridget had to admit to herself that her one wish was not likely to be granted. Even when her sister was absent.

“Oh, so you are Miss Sarah’s younger sister!” Lady Newbury cried, taking in Bridget’s brown, curly hair with a skeptical eye. It was the opposite of her sister’s fair, straight locks. Nor did she have the long, easy grace that Sarah did. But she did have her mother at her elbow, and she at least would attest to having birthed both of them, strange as it might seem.

“Yes, my lady,” Bridget replied, the only betrayal of her true feelings being a double blink at Lady Newbury’s exclamation.

“We should say Mrs. Fletcher now,” Bridget’s mother, Lady Forrester, corrected. Now it was Lady Newbury’s turn to double-blink.

“Yes, of course,” she replied smoothly. “And how is Mrs. Fletcher—Sarah—settling in to married life?”

As her mother launched into polite small talk about the town house Sarah and her new husband had purchased, and how it was a mother’s duty to help with the decoration, Lady Newbury kept her smile pinned neatly on her face, but Bridget knew she was thinking about how such a bright star as Miss Sarah Forrester could possibly have chosen a naval lieutenant over any number of wealthier, more aristocratic gentlemen that vied for her hand. (Even though Jack was a family friend and proved an excellent match for Sarah, and with his new position at the War Department was well able to keep Sarah in comfort, none of those things mattered to the likes of Lady Newbury.) Bridget simply wanted to shake her head. It was that curious quality that Sarah possessed and Bridget did not—even after all the dramatics were said and done, people still wondered about Sarah, her name on the tips of their tongues.

“I do hope you enjoy yourself, Miss Forrester,” Lady Newbury said, and Bridget realized she was addressing her. “A girl’s first Season is always a wondrous occasion.”

“Yes,” Bridget replied, her eyebrow going up, “it certainly was.”

But her use of the past tense went unnoticed by Lady Newbury, who tittered on. “And I’m certain you will make a splash just like your sister. Why, I remember her sitting in my ballroom, just last summer, surrounded by men, and choosing of all of them her lieutenant to dance with.” She sighed. “So romantic.”

“It wasn’t romantic,” Bridget replied, bluntly. “He left her in the middle of the dance floor, causing a stir.”

“He did?” Lady Newbury’s brows came down. “I’m certain you heard it wrong.”

“Possibly, but I saw it correctly.” Bridget would have defiantly crossed her arms over her chest if her mother hadn’t been squeezing her elbow quite so tight. “I was there, after all.”

“Lady Newbury, thank you for inviting us. I’m certain we shall see you later in the evening,” Lady Forrester interrupted, before their hostess’s face could change from confusion to embarrassment at her faux pas. But even though she couldn’t help setting Lady Newbury back on her heels a bit since she had overlooked the fact that Bridget was not in her first Season and had in fact attended functions of Lady Newbury’s in the past year . . . Bridget was somewhat thankful that she had been overlooked. Perhaps it meant that everyone would think that she was new to the social scene.

Maybe, Bridget thought hopefully, she was about to be awarded a clean slate.

Sadly, it took only an hour to dispel that notion.

For girls who were completely unknown would at least get asked to dance at least once or twice.

But not Bridget.

The closest Bridget got to the dance floor was when being introduced to one Mr. Hartley, the son of a Baronet in Yorkshire whose pleasant appearance was marred by a lack of chin, which he tried to make up for with an incredibly complicated cravat. But he was nice and spoke passionately (about his sheep farm, but passionately, still) and seemed very eager to talk to Bridget. In fact, Bridget had thought he might ask her for a dance. That perhaps it was even on the tip of his tongue.

“Miss Forrester, might I ask . . .” Mr. Hartley was saying, when a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hartley, where did you get off to?” came the friendly voice of Mr. Coombe—a young man not too long down from Cambridge, who Bridget remembered dancing attendance upon Sarah last Season. At least he wasn’t one of the cadres of men that had stood outside their doors at all hours, hoping for a glimpse of her sister, the Golden Lady, but instead confined his fawning attentions to various ballrooms.

“I was just having a pleasant conversation with Miss Forrester here,” Mr. Hartley said, and Bridget offered a smile and curtsy to Mr. Coombe, as he gave a short bow over her hand.

“Miss Forrester, happy to see you again.” Mr. Coombe said quickly before turning to Hartley. “Where have you been, old man? My aunt has been waiting a quarter hour for you to come partner her at whist, as you promised.”

“I did?” Mr. Hartley replied, before hastily amending, “Er, so I did! Miss Forrester, if you will excuse me?”

And with that Mr. Hartley, and the possibility of dancing, left Bridget.

It wasn’t long before she knew why. Without a dance partner, Bridget had no reason to remain in the ballroom, despite her mother’s insistence that she stay there “just in case.” She successfully pleaded thirst and excused herself to find the refreshments. After all, no one would be fetching anything for her, so she would simply have to do it herself.

At the refreshment table, Bridget procured herself a glass of lemonade and a small respite behind a potted palm tree, into which she and her green dress blended quite nicely.

One should beware of potted palm trees. They yield only unwanted information.

“I say, why did you pull me away from Miss Forrester?” she heard Mr. Hartley’s voice as he took a gulp of his own freshly procured lemonade. He was decidedly not playing cards with Coombe’s aunt.

“Don’t worry, I promised I’d introduce you to many eligible young ladies, and I shall,” Mr. Coombe replied. The thud she heard was likely him slapping Mr. Hartley on the back again. Coombe seemed inclined to back slapping.

“But you’re the one who told me that Miss Forrester was the catch of the decade! In fact, I was remarkably surprised to find her unattended.”

“That’s her sister, you fool! And that was last Season. Miss Forrester—the one worth talking to, at any rate—married herself off to a navy lieutenant last year.” Mr. Coombe then lowered his voice to a grumble. “The Golden Lady, married to a man with no prospects . . .”

Bridget could not contain an eye roll. Coombe was unaware of just how illustrious Jackson Fletcher’s prospects had become with his new, pivotal role within the War Department, but it wouldn’t matter to him if he did. He was still stuck on the idea of the Golden Lady going to someone else, like a prize won at cards, instead of it being her decision. But the eye roll was stopped short when she heard the next exchange.

“Then what do you know of Miss Bridget Forrester? I have to say she seemed pleasant enough to me. Pretty, too, in a freckled sort of way,” Mr. Hartley offered, and Bridget silently thanked him (freckles aside) for his kindness. Because she knew—knew to her toes—what Coombe’s answer would be.

“Yes, well, don’t let that fool you. She is an absolute shrew. Last Season, whenever anyone approached her, she said either something snide or nothing at all. Shocking that she’s related to the Golden Lady.”

“Oh,” was Hartley’s only reply. And with that single word, Bridget knew that any chance of dancing with Hartley—of dancing with anyone this Season—was next to nothing.

“Don’t worry, chap,” Coombe replied, their voices getting fainter as they moved away from the refreshment table, “this town is full of lovely young ladies for you to converse with. I’ll steer you around the unpleasant ones. Perhaps we’ll even find one who likes sheep as much as you do.”

Bridget stood quietly behind the fronds of the palm. She did not sink back against the wall. She had too much pride for that. Her eyes remained quite dry—indeed, to cry over the opinion of someone as low in her estimation as Coombe was a waste of perfectly good salt water. Instead, she let a wave of resignation move over her, straightening her spine, setting her jaw defiantly.

No, she would get no second chances. No blank slate. Instead her character was fixed as “unpleasant.” And there seemed little she could do but endure it.

It was going to be a long Season.