“I say that I will stay right here, thank you very much.”
“But, surely you understand…” Alwyn reached to clasp her hand. “Once I am a doctor, I will live and practice in London. Will you come and live with me then?”
“Honestly, I have no desire to breathe in that city air and feel the press of all those people.”
There was a set to her chin, and Alwyn knew he would make no headway, so he changed tack.
“Then perhaps you would like someone to come and live with you here. I cannot bear the thought of you being all alone. Who might make you happy?”
With all solemnity, she replied, “William, I assure you that I am pleased to stay at the Castle, even if by myself. Now…”
She wiggled her hand free from his to wave him away.
“Go and have a good wash. The smell of you is spoiling my appetite for dinner.”
A Simple Little Rout
TRUE TO HER word, Aunt Rose had commissioned a new wardrobe for Belinda nearly the moment they had arrived in London. When the first gown was delivered two days later, it came with the promise that others would soon follow. So it was that as Lindy sat in the breakfast room on her fourth morning in town, she was wearing a new lavender day dress. Running her hand over the skirt, she admired how its stripes appeared dark or pale depending on how they caught the light. Thinking of the iron-burn on her formerly favorite dress, she determined to be careful, and held her buttered toast well over her plate.
The previous week at Whitehall, she had combed the library for any book, fictional or factual, that might help to prepare her for her first time in town. After skimmingLeigh’s New Picture of London, she had read much ofSketches by Bozwhich was full of ridiculous characters. Many of them attempted to improve their social standing and increase their fortune, often by unscrupulous means. Wondering if the next tale would be about a girl who thought herself too grand to marry the village wheelwright, she had shut the book and returned it to its shelf.
Remembering this, Lindy put her last bit of toast aside, doubting she would ever feel at ease there on Hertford Street.
The maid came in with the morning post. After handing Mrs Caspar a small envelope, she held the silver salver out to Mr Caspar.
Lindy watched him flip through the stack of letters, hoping he would find one for her from Nell.
“Minnie, were these sent directly here or forwarded from Whitehall?” George asked.
“Arrived this mornin’ from Whitehall, sir.”
Hehmphed and scooped the envelopes up, rising from his seat. “Please excuse me, ladies.”
Nothing for me,Belinda sighed.
But her disappointment evaporated when Aunt Rose looked up from the card she held to say, “It is good that your blue sarcenet will arrive this afternoon, Lindy, as you’ll need something to wear to the rout-party we’ve just been invited to this evening.”
Steadying the hand that held her teacup, Belinda breathed, “Oh aunt, the thought of being surrounded by any number of strangers…”
Rose chuckled. “Well, I haven’t checked your closet for any elderly ladies in need of a companion, but none were hiding in mine, so it seems we must go out to find them!”
Even by late afternoon, the queasiness in Lindy’s stomach had not settled. She sat at her vanity table in her chemise and corset, looking at the blue gown that was spread out over her bed.
This is why you came to town at all,she chided her reflection as she began to pin up her hair. There was a knock at her bedroom door, and before she could even call out, Rose came in with an unfamiliar young woman beside her.
“Dearest, you needn’t bother with your hair. Céline has come to set it.” Rose beckoned the stranger further into the room. “Céline, this is my niece, Miss Belinda.”
“Enchantée, mademoiselle.” The woman bobbed her head and was at the vanity table in one fluid movement, setting a small satchel on the floor.
“I am pleased to meet—oh!” Lindy cried as the coiffeur was already tugging at her tresses.
“…to meet you.”
“Oui, oui,” Céline murmured as she grasped Belinda’s jaw none too lightly, turning it right, then left. Narrowing her eyes, she tapped her own chin, thoughtfully.
“Je pense…à la chinoise,” she said to herself, then began to rummage through her bag. From its depths, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper which she smoothed out on the table. It was covered with drawings of coiffures, all remarkably detailed.
“Wouldmademoisellelike zees one or zees one?” Céline asked, pointing at two particular sketches.
