From within the carriage came the sound of Mother coughing again. A spasm of worry flickered over Papa’s face. “Yes, the Westons, if you like,” he said distractedly. “Very good. We must be going now.”
Joan gave a vigorous nod. Yes, let them be off, carrying Mother to healthier air. The sound of that coughing frightened her near out of her wits. “Good-bye, Papa. Take care of her.”
“The very best care I can.” He pressed a quick kiss on her forehead. “Write to us. It will keep up Mother’s spirits to hear of you.”
“I will, Papa, every week.”
He stepped into the carriage and the footman closed the door behind him. Mother herself leaned forward to raise her hand in farewell. Joan forced a bright smile and waved back, remaining on the pavement until the traveling coach had vanished around the end of the street.
Slowly she turned and went back into the house. It seemed so large and empty suddenly, as if losing Papa’s booming laugh and Mother’s energy had cast a funereal pall over the whole house. She shivered and tucked her shawl more closely around her. Perhaps she should go to the Westons until Aunt Evangeline arrived; she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in this empty, echoing house.
But then, she really wasn’t in the mood for gossip and laughing, either. The Weston house was always filled with both. Abigail would understand and leave her in peace, but Penelope couldn’t hold her tongue to save her life. Normally Joan enjoyed every minute she spent with the Weston girls, but ... not today.
“Shall I send for some tea, Miss Bennet?” asked the butler quietly.
She rubbed her elbows and nodded. “Thank you, Smythe.”
He bowed and left her standing in the hall alone. Joan couldn’t recall the last time she had been completely alone in the house. She wandered into the morning room, feeling utterly adrift. What would she do, without Mother to supervise her? Would Evangeline allow her to go out, or had Papa given her strict instructions? What would Aunt Evangeline be like?
In spite of her worries, her spirits began to lift as she thought about her renegade aunt. She hadn’t seen Evangeline since Mother refused to have her in the house, but she’d heard such rumors ... not that one could trust them, of course. Joan could believe Evangeline indulged in spirits and wore more daring gowns than Mother thought proper. She’d also seen Sir Richard Campion from across the Mall once and had no trouble believing Evangeline would throw over society’s approval for such a man. But surely the rest was exaggeration. Surely a countess wouldn’t attend boxing matches and wager on them. Surely a lady wouldn’t ride her estate in buckskin breeches and help mend fences. And of course the stories about Evangeline driving a stage on a dare must be pure fabrication.
As if summoned by those thoughts, a carriage rattled up the street and stopped in front of the still open door. Joan went out to welcome her infamous aunt with no small amount of curiosity.
Evangeline, Lady Courtenay, stepped down from her open barouche and swept Joan into her arms. “You dear girl,” she exclaimed. “Are your parents already away? I came as soon as I got your father’s note but there was a problem with the carriage wheel. Are you well?” She drew back to inspect Joan’s face critically. “No tears—a good sign. You’re as sturdy as the rest of the Bennets, I see.”
“Oh! Well ...” Joan gazed at her aunt in wonder. “I didn’t wish to upset Mother.”
Lady Courtenay smiled, sliding her arm into Joan’s. “Good girl! Shall we go inside? I’ve come with only a valise of essentials; my maid should arrive later with my trunks. I hope you’ve not been alone long?”
“No, not long at all,” Joan replied as they went into the house. In the hall her aunt removed her bonnet and long white pelisse. Joan’s interest fixed on her aunt’s dress. It wasn’t the fashion of the moment, not by a long shot—and yet it was striking. The bodice was shaped to her aunt’s figure in clean, simple lines, with hardly a garnishment or embellishment. The neckline swooped low, though not too low, displaying a bosom as rounded as Joan’s own. The skirt seemed to cling to her hips before flaring out just above the floor. Tiny gold charms sparkled around the bell-like sleeves, like the illustrations Joan had seen of a Turkish pasha’s wife. And most shocking of all was the fabric: a fine glazed cotton of brightest orange, sewn with yellow thread. She had never seen the like.
“Oh my,” Lady Courtenay murmured, looking around the hall. “It’s been a long time since I was here.” For a moment her expression grew pensive. “Is your brother Douglas well? I remember him sliding down those stairs atop an atlas he’d carried down from the schoolroom. He was so proud of himself, and it nearly killed your mother.”
Joan choked on a laugh. “He’s well. Papa’s sent him to Norfolk to see to Ashwood House. There was a flood and it needs to be repaired, and ... well, somehow Papa decided Douglas ought to go.”
Another smile, fainter this time, lit her aunt’s face. “Ah, yes. I remember my father doing something quite similar to my brother. Well, I hope it serves Douglas as well as it served your father.”
“What do you mean, Aunt Courtenay?”
Lady Courtenay winked at her. “That’s when he met your mother. But enough reminiscing. Come, tell me how you are. I think we’re going to get on famously, don’t you? You must call me Evangeline—‘Aunt Courtenay’ sounds like a dotty old woman, and not in a charming way. I hope you don’t mind, I simply must visit my dressmaker. I didn’t come to London at all last year and I can’t gallivant about town in frocks two years old.”
Joan started, shaking off the diverting thought of her parents’ first meeting. “Oh, no, I have no objection at all!” she exclaimed. “But ...” She cast a longing eye over Evangeline’s dress again. “Which dressmaker do you patronize? I don’t recognize her work at all.”
“Shh,” whispered Evangeline, a teasing smile lighting her eyes. “You mustn’t tell your mother. My dressmaker isn’t a woman at all! He’s Italian, and he has such an eye for color and texture. He makes my gowns to suit me, not the latest fashions. Do you like this one?” She gestured at her dress.
It was magnificent—and everything Joan knew her mother would never let her wear, even though she suddenly wanted a gown like that more than anything. She swallowed. “Yes. Very much.”
“Then we shall have Federico make a gown for you, too.” She glanced down and seemed to see Joan’s dress for the first time. She paused, and her eyes widened. Joan could guess why. It was a yellow morning dress bristling with knots of blue ribbon at the flounce and bodice. It looked girlish and fussy next to the exotic starkness of Evangeline’s frock, even though it had been carefully copied from the latest issue ofLa Belle Assemblée. “Or—or perhaps you have your own style,” Evangeline said politely.
Joan looked down at the dress. It was pale and pretty and perfectly suitable for a petite young lady of sixteen. For a tall, buxom woman of four and twenty ... “My mother chose it,” she admitted. “It’s very fashionable.”
“And it is lovely,” said Evangeline quickly. “Only ... I think perhaps pale yellow isn’t your best color ...”
“What about gold?” The question popped out of her mouth without thought. Joan almost cringed when she heard herself ask it.
“Gold would be lovely on you,” cried Evangeline. “Yes, indeed, with your hair and eyes, it would be very flattering. I’m sure Federico can create something—perhaps a purple underskirt, with a gold crepe overdress and bodice. And—he will never suggest this, but I think it quite smashing—jet beads! They look so striking, and no one else is wearing them.”
Joan blinked at the thought: wanting to wear something no one else wore? Was that not the antithesis of fashion? But then again ... She looked at Evangeline’s radiant gown. It would take a bold soul to wear that color, even though the cut was very flattering. “Or perhaps blue,” she said hesitantly. “I quite like blue as well.”
