Living London

chapter Five



"I need help," I said to the maid, Libby, as I slipped into my room and closed the door behind me. She was remaking my bed after my earlier efforts. Apparently I didn't know how to do it correctly.

"Oh, miss, you gave me a fright! What can I help you with?"

Looking into her wide blue eyes, I searched for a hint of distain, mistrust, or anything that would make her untrustworthy. She noticed my perusal and seemed hurt. She didn't back down but waited for me to come to a conclusion. She seemed honest, and she didn't have that air of jealousy or selfishness about her some girls had. I'd always been good at reading people. Hopefully it would serve me well here in London.

"I need a crash course in etiquette."

"You need help with manners, miss?" Her expression was disbelieving and dubious, as if unsure whether she should question me or simply obey.

"Yes. I'm sure you're aware I can't remember a thing, and I believe I just made several social—" What was the word? "—faux pas with the Marquess, Morgan Ansley."

Her eyebrows shot up at the mention of his name, and I wondered if she would offer any insight into the intriguing Marquess. "Of course, miss, I'd be happy to instruct you."

I breathed out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you."

****

"No, miss, that is the marrow spoon."

"The what?" I asked, afraid of the answer.

"Marrow," Libby stated. "As in the middle of a bone."

"I eat that?" I asked, shuddering at the thought. Oh, whatever happened to french fries?

"Of course! It's a delicacy."

"Do I like it?" I felt stupid for asking the question, but I was curious.

"No. You do not." And with that simple answer, Libby's face broke into a grin, and I knew we were destined to be friends.

"Must I eat it when it's offered?"

"Yes, but only a bite or two to be polite. Then you may fill up on whatever you wish."

What a relief. I didn't want to be eating marrow for dinner or lunch or at anytime really. The thought set my stomach on edge. "What's next?" I asked, placing the spoon back where it belonged. Thankfully, Nanna had helped me understand formal place settings, but that spoon had thrown me for a loop. Dinner I could handle, but afterward… that was going to be a different story.

"Well, miss, the gentlemen will retire to a separate salon than the women and enjoy brandy, cigars, and conversation. The women will drink sherry in a sitting room and play piano, converse, and engage in other activities."

I could play piano, so that would be helpful, although the pieces I knew by heart hadn't been written yet. Smiling to myself, I imagined sitting with all those proper British ladies and pounding out "Heart and Soul" on the piano. Tempting.

Libby pulled me from my daydream. "Come, miss, let's practice conversation." Once she'd realized the depth of help necessary to render me capable in polite society, she had thrown herself into the task with gusto. As I stood and walked with her to the sitting room, she began to frown. "May I speak frankly, miss?"

"Always. You don't need my permission. Please just be honest."

"Your posture is horrid." Her mouth pinched as she looked me over, apparently finding my stance severely lacking. Nanna had scolded me many times over my posture when I'd been a child, but I thought I had remedied it. Apparently I was mistaken. How could one slouch in a corset, anyway? If I tried I'd simply fall over.

"Like this. Tuck your belly in, throw your shoulders back, and pinch them. Keep your hands at your side. That's it." She nodded as I followed her instructions.

I felt like I was in a commercial for the US army, standing at attention. I had broad shoulders, so the last thing I wanted to do was accentuate them. As if reading my mind, Libby corrected me.

"Keeping your shoulders back will minimize their broadness, but also remember, your waist is small and the contrast with your shoulders and waist and — lower half — give you the perfect hourglass shape. Use it well, miss." She nodded as I adjusted my body.

She was right. The corset had given me an even smaller waistline, and I could understand her logic. Keeping my posture, I followed her into the green salon.

"Miss, walk quieter. Don't stomp. Glide. Watch me." She moved with a grace that reminded me of ballet. I could do that, but holding the posture and gliding seemed a bit difficult. But if she could do it, so could I. Focusing my efforts I managed to "glide" into the parlor with Libby clapping her hands.

"Now hold your head up high, tilt your head back slightly, and raise your ears."

"My what?"

"Your ears. Pull your spine straight. Ah yes. Very nice."

This was much more work than I'd anticipated. Walking — no, gliding over to the settee while keeping my ears raised, I sat down gently and crossed my legs.

"Oh no, miss! You mustn't do that. " She sat next to me and showed me how to cross my ankles.

Ah, I remember doing that. I'd only gotten in the habit of crossing my legs after high school. Nanna had never allowed me to do it around her, said it was vulgar. Now perfectly posed, I closed my eyes and tried to memorize the position so I could find it once again.

"Much better! I see you've been busy, Libby!" Mrs. Trimbleton announced as she joined us in the parlor. Her cap was pristine white and her riotous curls were threatening to overcome their pins. She handed me a weighty bundle of missives. I regarded the pile, noticing all the varying designs and shapes.

"What's this?" I asked, wondering if had to write thank you cards for some reason.

"Your correspondence. It seems that news of your incident yesterday has made the rounds. Judging by the amount of invitations you received, the ton is concerned about your welfare. No doubt the Dannberry brothers spread the word at White's last night. Those two couldn't keep a secret if they tried." She blew out an indignant huff as she sifted through the pile of letters. She came to a thick ivory envelope with embossed etching and a blue wax seal. "Ah, here's the one you'll want to attend tonight."

"Wait, all of these are for tonight?"

"Oh, no, not all of them. I'm sure there are one or two that are merely correspondence."

There had to be fifteen envelopes. Apparently my mishap had given me a boost of popularity. Not exactly the kind of popularity I would wish for, but there was nothing I could do about it. "What is the invitation for?" I asked, curious.

"The Steward's Ball. It's a smaller affair, and you go each year. Your cream gown will be beautiful. Libby, would you please set it out and arrange everything for Miss Westin's toilet?"

"Yes'm." She dipped a quick curtsey to Mrs. Trimbleton and then to me and scurried away to do the housekeeper's bidding.

"Do you honestly think I'm ready for this? You saw me this morning. Don't you think my attendance tonight is a bit premature? Surely I'll humiliate myself!

She straightened her spine and pulled herself to her full height of about five-foot-two and speared me with a sharp gaze. "You're a Westin. You do not hide. Ever. You will be grace and beauty. You will have a good excuse to leave early, but you will stay, you will dance, and you will uphold your family's name."

One thing hadn't changed in all the chaos—I was still a Westin. And she was right. If I hid I'd only fuel the gossip, practically begging for the old biddies to slay my family's name. I couldn't let that happen. I'd read enough of my Regency romance books to know what to expect in a general sense, and I knew I had to face the sharks or else I'd end up being bait.

So, with a deep breath, I gazed into Mrs. Trimbleton's eyes. "All right, what do I need to do?"