“I’m sure you were, Mary,” he said. “I told Mrs. Millet of our plans. She would join us, I’m sure.”
“It is Mrs. Millet,” Jo said. She departed the arena with a tall, thin man with white hair. He glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment, his gray eyes met Jo’s. She shivered. They were the coldest eyes she had ever seen.
“I suppose she couldn’t find us in this crowd,” her father said.
Jo smiled and took his arm, but it left her perturbed.
As the days passed, Jo gained confidence in finding her way around Mayfair and its environs with Sally, and they returned to the dressmaker’s rooms again. Jo’s ballgown was not the muslin she’d hoped for, but a beautiful pale blue sarsnet, worn over a white satin slip, cut low, with a sash of satin riband, fastened in a bow in front and ornamented with a deep trimming of net. It was quite the loveliest dress she’d ever seen. The rest of her wardrobe would be delivered later in the afternoon. After a last fitting, Jo had her hair cut by the hairdresser Letty recommended.
The woman set about the task, comb and scissors poised, while Jo sat nervously in the chair. Inches were lopped off and fell in piles on the floor. When she finished, Jo, unsure, glanced this way and that in the mirror. She felt light-headed as she came home with Sally. Calling for the tea tray and a special request for scones, she sank into a chair in the parlor.
A kitchen maid brought in the tea tray. She unstacked the tea things onto the table. “Oh, you’ve had your hair cut, Miss Dalrymple. It’s ever so smart with those shorter bits in front.”
Relieved, Jo smiled at the maid. Not that she was particularly vain about her hair, she just wanted to look right. “Thank you, Milly.” She was on good terms with all the servants, except the butler, who maintained his snobbish demeanor. “Mm, scones and lemon tarts, my favorites, please thank Cook.”
“I will, miss.” Milly bobbed and left the room.
Pleased with her day, Jo poured the tea from the rose painted teapot into porcelain cups for herself and her father, who had just wandered in. Aunt Mary had declared herself weary and asked to have a tray sent to her room.
She drank her tea, then left her father puffing on his pipe and reading the broadsheets to go to her bedchamber. Sally hovered over a pile of boxes and brown-paper packages. Her blue eyes danced, a pair of scissors already poised in her hand. “Ooh, Miss Jo, shall I cut the string?”
Jo hurried over to the bed. “Please do, Sally.”
Soon, the empty boxes sat discarded on the floor along with piles of tissue paper. The ball gown was perfect. She would look just the thing when at her next ball.
They received another invitation to a ball close by in Mayfair. Her father told her that Mrs. Millet was working tirelessly on their behalf. He had learned she’d fallen on hard times since Mr. Millet died.
Sally, who was quickly learning her role of lady’s maid, curled Jo’s hair in papers. The evening of the ball, Jo sat before the mirror in her chemise and petticoats while Sally coaxed her curls into a modern style, lower on the forehead and partly braided with a half-wreath of spring flowers. A light application of powder and Jo slipped into the ballgown. She wore her mother’s pearl earrings and the gold heart-shaped locket her father had given her for her birthday. With the addition of a pretty shawl, shoes of white satin, and white gloves above the elbow, Jo was ready.
Unlike the Rivenstocks, Lady Montford proved to be a charming hostess. Pleased with her appearance, Jo was determined to enjoy herself. Either Mrs. Millet had done as she promised and zealously spread the news of Jo’s handsome dowry, or it was her beautiful ballgown that brought men to her to request an introduction.
Jo danced every dance. The ball was similar to the last, differing only in its superior décor. There were familiar faces among the guests and the evening progressed very much like the last.
Jo sat between dances, sipping lemonade when a girl in white muslin approached her with a friendly smile. She was unusually tall and slender, the feathers in the headdress adorning her fair hair stressing her height.
“Charlotte Graham, how do you do? I noticed you sitting alone, and as I have no one to talk to, I wondered if I might join you.”
Jo gestured to the seat beside her. “Please do, Miss Graham. Joanna Dalrymple.”
Charlotte took the spare seat beside Jo. “Call me Charlotte. Is this your first time in London? I haven’t seen you before. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”
“Call me, Jo, please. I am new to London. Are you?”
“Good heavens, no. This is my third Season.”
“Oh.” Jo didn’t know quite what to say to that. She never imagined some girls would come Season after Season without finding a husband.
“It happens. I haven’t taken.” Charlotte smiled good-naturedly. “My grandfather insists I come every year, even though he’s of the opinion that I’m too tall to attract a husband. My dowry isn’t particularly large, either.”
“Do you enjoy coming to London?”
“I don’t mind. Our small Devonshire village is rather dull. The worst thing is I make friends among the debutantes but see little of them after they marry.” She eyed Jo appreciatively. “You won’t be sitting here like a wallflower for long. A gentleman will snap you up.”
“A wallflower?”
“That’s what we call ourselves.” Charlotte shrugged. “I made a good friend last Season. Miss Anabel Riley. But she disappeared from London.”
“Did she get married?”
