“But we are not going to lie, are we?” Beatrice asked Charlotte. “It wouldn’t do to meet our future husbands and start with a falsehood.”
“Of course not,” Charlotte said. “I want my husband to fall in love with who I really am anyway, wherever I may meet him. Don’t you?”
Beatrice nodded, but silently considered her sister’s statement. She was a toffee-maker, an unremarkable middle sister, and considered cranky by many. None of that seemed particularly worth loving.
“Good evening,” their father boomed. “You three look splendid. Dressed to the nines!”
“I am happy for you,” their mother agreed. “This is the perfect treat for my hard-working girls. And you look dapper as well, Mr. Carson.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“We’re going to mingle and make ourselves scarce,” Armand Foure said, “so you can have our table.”
“Whyever for?” Beatrice asked.
“If we’re all together, it will be harder for your scheme to play out.”
“Our scheme?” Charlotte asked, sounding delighted.
“Your father means if the whole family is standing around, it is less likely you two will be seen as mysterious heiresses,” said their mother.
“But we’re not mysterious heiresses,” Beatrice pointed out, starting to feel a little panicky, again wondering what would happen if they were quickly discovered to be shopgirls amongst thebon ton. Even though it was Amity’s house, she and Charlotte didn’t belong. They should be at one of the regular dances for commoners, held at a hotel ballroom or a music hall.
“Tonight, in the safety of your sister’s ducal mansion, you can be whomever you please,” her mother said, reaching out to touch her hand. “Beatrice, look at me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You’re a beautiful young woman with much to offer any lucky man. And don’t forget Farrah’s.”
“Thank you.” She would keep reminding herself of that. She wasn’t simply someone who knew the best proportions of butter to treacle and sugar. On the other hand, she wished her mother hadn’t spoken in front of Mr. Carson. Beatrice thought it made her sound slightly pathetic, with no vim and vigor of her own.
“And you, too, Charlotte,” her mother added. “Any gentleman will consider himself lucky once you decide upon him.” Then she took her husband’s hand. “We’ll see you at the dinner hour. Amity says it will be substantial, not mere soda biscuits and cheese.” Then their parents wandered away through the growing throng.
“What or who is Farrah’s?” Mr. Carson asked.
Distractedly, glancing around the room at those entering, Beatrice responded, “Mr. Farrah started making toffee in Harrogate in 1840, giving people something to take away the terrible, sulfuric taste of their renowned healing water.”
Mr. Carson blinked. “They ate toffee because of bad water?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Farrah’s is sold all over now. Mother reminds me of it now and again as proof that toffee isn’t merely a frivolous sweet. But of course it is! It’s a delicious confection, and using it to clean one’s palate doesn’t make it medicinal or elevate my abilities in any way. Such nonsense!” Then she took a long breath. “But I do love when Mother says it, anyway. It’s like a soothing balm.”
“The room is filling up,” Charlotte remarked, “and the single gentlemen will start to make the rounds and ask us to dance. I hope you remembered a spare pencil.”
Beatrice felt a flutter of nerves. Her sister, who was more a devotee of the society pages and the gossip rags, not to mention used to dealing with numerous strangers in the front of the shop, seemed much more composed.
“We all know how it works,” Beatrice told her, turning to encompass Mr. Carson. “And yes, I have a pencil for any ill-mannered clout who didn’t bring one. Do you have one?”
Mr. Carson grinned crookedly. “Even if I’d forgotten, I wouldn’t tell you and risk being labelled an ‘ill-mannered clout,’ would I? Besides, I bet our hosts have plenty to spare.”
“Then you don’t have one,” she guessed. “Here, take mine. I won’t dance with a fog-pated jackdaw who has forgotten his.”
Charlotte giggled.
Beatrice sighed. “Except for you, Mr. Carson,” she said, retrieving the small pencil from her reticule and handing it to him.
“The best part of our arrangement,” Charlotte continued, “is that our cards won’t be pathetically empty. When other men take a look, we shall have a partner already written in, if Mr. Carson will allow and if you won’t be such a cross-pot,” she added, glaring briefly at Beatrice. However, since Charlotte could never hold an ounce of anger or a grudge for more than a second, she smiled again almost instantly.
“Quick, now, Mr. Carson, gentlemen will start to come over any minute.”
