CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I now claim your indulgence.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Ten days later.
Amelia peered at herself in the gilded mirror.
Fiddled with her lace-edged sleeve.
Fidgeted with the gossamer net over her pink satin skirts.
Faffed with the ribbon beneath her carmine-hued bodice.
“This is ridiculous,” she mumbled, pulling taut her gloves of white silk. “To be so anxious. It’s just a ball out there.”
Albeit quite a grand one.
With Hugh still recovering, an invitation had arrived from Sir Edmund for an impromptu ball to be held at his townhouse. A handwritten note to them both had been attached, explaining that no more was his wife to hide away from the social whirl, thatthey would pay no heed if theTongossiped about her condition or if the Home Office considered it a hindrance to his position.
And this ball would be her debut.
Hugh had groaned and clutched his arm, so Amelia had sought her quill in order to send a return message, to convey their sincere regret and wish them well but they could not attend, not with Hugh still infirm. But…
Lady Kemble had proposed that Amelia accompany her to the ball. That the two of them must attend as Letty would require their full support.
Phoebe had folded her arms and declared it a splendid idea.
Hugh had nodded and agreed it was for the best and that Sir Edmund would greatly appreciate the gesture.
So here she was alone in the retiring room, cloistered from the hubbub of the ball, smoothing the beautiful dress that Lady Kemble had provided for her and rearranging her choker with its enamelled butterfly.
The afternoon’s preparations, she would have to admit, had been wondrous.
Aided by Mrs Dawkins and Sally, she’d been bathed in rosewater and then primped, powdered and perfumed till she hardly recognised herself.
Phoebe had then rouged Amelia’s cheeks and lips. “I wish I could come,” she’d said with a leaden sigh. “Although would I be allowed to wear black?”
“I suppose it depends on the host,” Amelia had replied. “And I wish you could come too, but it won’t be long now until you can attend all the balls you want during your Season.”
“Bleurgh.” Phoebe had wrinkled her nose. “I want to attend this ball, not others. And I’ll not wear white. I’d faint. Now…” She’d tweaked a hairpin. “I’m going upstairs to sit with Uncle and read himThe History of Locks.So have a lovely time.” And with a buss, she’d left.
Whilst awaiting Lady Kemble’s carriage, Amelia had gently knocked upon Hugh’s bedchamber door as how she’d wished for him to see her in all her finery rather than the drab governess gowns that she’d worn each day for nursing him.
Phoebe had popped her head out. “He’s asleep,” she’d whispered. “Nodded off on page three so we mustn’t disturb him. As you’ve always said, he needs his rest.”
She had said that but surely…
Then the carriage had arrived in the Square to collect her while Sally had draped a cloak over her shoulders and led her downstairs. Cruikshank had held open the door and Amelia had departed for the ball with a small sigh as–
A rattle of handle and the retiring room door opened, chatter from the hall bubbling, and Amelia grabbed her shawl, should cease loitering here.
“Good evening. Miss Lambert, is it not?”
She glanced up to meet the amused blue eyes of Lady Twyford herself. She sank into a curtsey. “Oh, my lady. Please do excuse our deception.”
