After all, she thought as she flung back the curtains to let in crisp sunlight, the money hidden behind the fireplace made them safe for a little while. They wouldn’t become homeless because they could not afford rent, or starve because they could not afford food.
And Fort was expected in town any day. Even if Oliver continued to gamble, he could not get into deep trouble in a few days. When Fort did arrive, she decided, she would not depend on Oliver. She would go to him herself and put their case. They were of an age and good friends. She knew he would help in some way.
Perhaps he would call out the horrible Major Barclay and kill him. That wouldn’t wipe out the debt, but it would be some kind of blow against fate.
As a result of these satisfying thoughts, when Oliver cheerfully insisted that they should go out to celebrate his winnings, Portia didn’t make a sour comment. Sitting in these bleak, chilly rooms and worrying about their situation would soon turn her into a shrew. She needed fresh air, and she did want to see something of fashionable London before leaving it forever.
She entered into the spirit of the day by dressing her finest. She’d only brought a few garments with her and all her wardrobe was country wear, but the quality was excellent so she felt no need to blush for her appearance. She chose an open gown of light brown callimanco, a glossy wool, which showed her best petticoat of embroidered silk.
Since she hadn’t lost all sense, she wore a heavy drugget petticoat beneath for warmth. It might be a sunny day, but it was still December.
In view of that fact, it would have been prudent to wear her heavy cloak, but Portia decided to have done with prudence for one day, and put on her short blue silk pelerine. Oliver had bought it for her last Christmas, before his father’s death, before their current disasters.
Now, when she fastened it at her neck he smiled proudly. “I chose that blue well, didn’t I, Portia? It matches your eyes and lights up your hair.” He winked. “You’ll catch all the men’s eyes today.”
Portia glanced in the small mirror. She dismissed the second part of his statement, but she had to admit that the cloak did suit her well. The color did its best for her blue eyes and red hair. It was a shame about the freckles, but she had long since realized that no treatment was going to remove them.
She had tried. She was not vain, but the freckles worked with her small stature and short nose to make her look absurdly young. Perhaps other women wanted to appear younger than they were, but having resigned herself to maturity, Portia wanted all of it.
She remembered someone saying, “By your looks and your behavior, I thought you younger…”
Then she remembered who it had been.
“What are you frowning at?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, just follies,” she replied and smiled. She fixed a neat flat hat at a jaunty angle on top of her curls, and decided that with the addition of a large fur muff Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Hall, Dorset, was as fine as possible.
Oliver was equally elegant in a suit of mulberry velvet, and shoes with a high heel. He did not destroy the effect with a cloak, but he too carried a fashionable muff. With his best powdered wig, he looked a true Town exquisite.
She linked arms with him and gave him a jaunty smile. “Let us venture forth, my dear, and slay London with our magnificence.”
As they strolled toward the more fashionable part of town, Portia deliberately put aside her cares. She simply enjoyed the fresh air and the interesting sights. She was pleased to see that Oliver was not trying to spend money on every gew-gaw they passed, but then he did stop in front of a milliner’s. “You don’t have a mask with you, do you?”
“Of course not. At this season, there’s hardly a need to shield my face from hot sun or dust.”
“But it’s all the go to carry one. You really should.” He was already entering the doorway, and Portia grabbed his coat.
“Oliver, I do not need a mask!”
He smiled at her. “Yes, you do. I just remembered that there’s a parade of the foot guards in St. James’s Park. I’ll go odds all the world will be there. You’ll enjoy it—the king will be there, even—but you should carry a mask.”
“The king…? But why a mask?”
“Why anything? It’s the fashion.”
Portia muttered about fashion, but she allowed herself to be drawn into the store where she chose a very plain, white, full-face mask on a stick. Oliver tried to persuade her to more ornate ones, but she refused all extravagance.
As they left the shop, she said, “I can’t think what to do with it.”
“Just let it dangle from your wrist by the ribbon. And now—on to St. James’s Park, where all the world awaits!”
It was as he said, and all the world—the Polite World, the Court—seemed to be in the park. The flowers were long gone, and most of the trees were bare, but the gorgeous clothes, the furs, and the jewels served to compensate for nature’s lost adornments.
Portia had no great interest in the rich and splendid, but faced by this fairy tale assembly, she could not help but be fascinated. Everyone seemed dressed too finely for a park—the men powdered, and the women in their richest gowns and cloaks. She remarked on this to Oliver.
“That’s because the king and queen will be here. This is almost like a Court.”
Portia chuckled. “I never thought to be at Court. I must pay attention. I’m sure Prudence will be fascinated to hear about our monarchs.”
