CHAPTER 13
“Welcome home, Lady Lavinia,” said Mrs. Down as Lavinia walked into the manor.
“Thank you, Mrs. Down. Any correspondence?” Lavinia slipped off her gloves and straightened her fingers that had been tingling after the brisk walk from the coaching stand.
“On the hall table, my lady. And a calling card from the modiste regarding Lady Frances’s new gloves.” Mrs. Down lowered her voice and looked sidelong at the table. “And a letter with a seal I do not recognize?”
Lavinia’s breath caught, but she kept her voice even. “Thank you. Please see that Lady Frances is informed I’m home. She may want to know about the gloves at once.”
She moved to the hall table, where three items awaited: the modiste’s note, a handbill about the upcoming vicarage fete, and a letter. The paper was thick, the wax pale blue, the monograma stylized S. She ran her finger over the seal—Nancy Rowson’s mark.
Her friend’s letters were never dull.
She broke the seal and unfolded the heavy, cream-colored sheet. The handwriting was large, slanted, and impatient.
Dearest Lavinia,
I am hosting a garden party next Thursday—nothing so grand as a ball, but the guest list is extremely well chosen. I invited them with you in mind. Scarfield insists on inviting one or two dullards, but I have mitigated this. You must come, and bring Frances. Indeed, bring every scrap of beauty your family possesses, as the company could do with improvement. There is a rumor that Hester is bringing her new French pastries, and you know how I suffer for pastry.
Yours,
Nancy
P.S. Wear the blue if you can. You know the one I mean.
A smile threatened the corners of Lavinia’s mouth, but she suppressed it for dignity’s sake. She barely had time to replace the letter on the table before a flurry of footsteps announced Frances, who swept into the foyer with the urgency of a house on fire.
"Lavinia! Did you hear from Nancy? You did, didn’t you?" Frances’s cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly mussed in a way that suggested she’d run straight from the schoolroom to intercept her sister. "Tell me at once!"
Lavinia feigned coolness. "I did receive a letter, yes. You are not to pounce on your correspondence like a terrier on a biscuit, Frances; it is unbecoming."
Frances bit her lip but could not stifle the excitement. "She’s inviting us, isn’t she? To the garden party? I just know she is. Oh, I do hope it’s not to be one of those solemn assemblies where no one dances or laughs above a whisper?—"
Lavinia held out the letter, letting Frances snatch it up with both hands.
"It is not a ball," Lavinia said, "but Nancy assures me the guest list is meticulously curated. Her own words."
Frances was already halfway through the letter. "Pastries! She mentions French pastries!" She clapped her hands in delight. "And look, she wants us early. I wager it is so she can show us her new hat before the rest of society arrives."
"I suspect," Lavinia replied, "it is because she knows we are the only guests guaranteed to rescue her from boredom before the hour." She reached for the letter, but Frances hugged it to her chest.
"Lavinia, do you think—do you suppose—" Frances’s face turned suddenly solemn, the gleam of mischief replaced by uncertainty. "Do you suppose that Mr. Hemsworth will be present? Or that anyone will notice me at all?"
Lavinia arched an eyebrow. "Mr. Hemsworth? I thought you found him insufferable."
"I do," Frances said, eyes downcast. "But he is better than most. And he is so very tall. It is unfair that men get taller as they grow older, while I have not grown at all since last Michaelmas."
"You have grown considerably, if only in wit," Lavinia said, gentler now. She reached out to smooth an unruly lock from her sister’s brow. "But if it is a husband you seek, perhaps you ought to cultivate more subtlety. Men are like wild pheasants: approach them directly, and they bolt for the hedgerow."
Frances giggled, but then turned earnest again. "Do you think it’s possible, Lavinia? That I might meet someone suitable at the party? I know I am not out yet—not officially—but sometimes I think I am already an old maid, and all the men who might have wanted me have found prettier girls."
Lavinia’s heart gave a painful twist at that. "You are seventeen, Frances. Entire wars have been won in less time than it takes to find a good marriage." She tried to smile, but it felt stretched over a chasm. "Nancy married at two-and-twenty, and she was the first of us to go."
Frances pursed her lips, then brightened. "I shall make a plan. If I do not find a husband by the end of next season, I shall become a poetess and scandalize the ton with my opinions." She struck a pose. "They say Lady Byron writes her own verses."
Lavinia managed a real smile then. "If you scandalize the ton, I hope you will do so under a name that does not further lower our credit."
Frances wilted, just slightly, and for the first time, Lavinia saw the uncertainty that lay beneath her sister’s exuberance.You have given her nothing,the inner voice scolded.Not a dowry, not even a dress new enough to warrant attention. You must do better.
