Aurelia smiled, because Clara’s happiness was too sincere to resist. But even while she smiled, she felt that familiar uneasiness settling upon her spirits. London had not changed merely because she had been absent from it. Those were the same streets, the same houses and the same polished doors with brass knockers, still guarding the same world which had once smiled upon her mother and then, with equal ease, cast her out.
A different address did not make it a different city.
She moved farther into the room and laid a hand upon the marble mantel. The furniture was comfortable, the air only faintly stale from disuse, and the window gave onto a street sufficiently quiet to appear safe. Yet all the while she could think only that she had returned to the very stage on which her family had been made a spectacle.
Clara was already gone again.
“A bedchamber with yellow hangings!” came her voice from above. “And another with roses in the paper! Aurelia, you must have the yellow room, for it is grave, although lovely, and I shall have the roses because I am only eighteen and may be foolish still.”
“I do not believe anyone has ever denied your right to foolishness,” Aurelia called back gently.
No answer came beyond laughter and the rapid patter of feet overhead.
The maid, who had been directing a footman in the matter of their trunks, turned again and offered Aurelia a small silver tray on which lay several cards and one folded note. “These were left not half an hour ago, miss. One was by messenger.”
Aurelia took them, expecting perhaps some direction from Louisa’s housekeeper, or another list of names to remember and avoid confounding. Instead, among the cards, one thick cream envelope immediately distinguished itself by the quality of the paper and the boldness of its seal.
She broke it open.
Lady Bannerman presents her compliments to Miss Finch and Miss Blackmore, and has the pleasure of informing them that, having long enjoyed the acquaintance and esteem of Mrs. Blackmore, she would be delighted by the honor of their company at Bannerman House this evening for dancing and refreshments, at ten o’clock.
Lady Bannerman sincerely hopes that Miss Blackmore’s arrival in town has been comfortable, and will be very happy to welcome both ladies on so agreeable an occasion.
For one moment she only stared.
Of course it was this evening. London never allowed for hesitation. One had scarcely arrived before one was expected to be displayed.
Clara reappeared at once, as if summoned by instinct whenever delight was near. “What is it? Has someone called? Are we to receive visitors already? Oh, do say it is something interesting.”
Aurelia handed her the card.
Clara read it, gasped, and then gave such a cry of pleasure that the maid withdrew with admirable discretion. “A ball! This very night! Aurelia, how perfect! I had not dared hope it would begin so soon.”
“So soon is precisely the difficulty.”
“But why should it be a difficulty?” Clara inquired.
“Because we have only just arrived. Because the trunks are hardly opened. Because you have been in the house a quarter of an hour and are already half in love with the wallpaper. Because a first appearance in town ought not to be made in a state of fatigue and confusion. Just pick one of those reasons and it should suffice.”
Clara looked at her as one might look at a person arguing against daylight. “But it is Lord and Lady Bannerman’s. Mama said everyone attends their ball. If we are not there, people will notice. Besides, what confusion can there be? We shall dress. We shall go. We shall dance. It is all very plain.”
“To you, perhaps.”
“Yes, because I mean to enjoy myself.”
The words were spoken with such cheerful determination that Aurelia could not even resent them. Clara threw herself into the blue chair by the window, which was the very one she had previously claimed, and hugged the invitation to her breast.
“Only think,” she spoke melodiously, “tonight I shall stand in a ballroom in London. There will be music and candles everywhere, and ladies with feathers, and gentlemen, and officers whispering together. Perhaps there will be some very handsome gentleman who will ask me to dance before I have even sat down. I do not insist upon his being very handsome, however. Moderately handsome would do if he admired me properly.”
There was no arguing with such logic when it was accompanied by such affection. Clara’s enthusiasm, while often untidy, was almost always sincere enough to shame resistance.
Aurelia had indeed come for her sake. To begin at once by refusing the first invitation of consequence would cast a chill over the whole enterprise. Aunt Louisa had wanted Clara introduced properly into society. A retreat on the first afternoon would do little to recommend them.
Still, she hesitated.
“We shall be fatigued,” she said, aware even as she spoke that the objection sounded feeble.
“I shall not. I could dance until breakfast.”
