‘It is. I love living there, and I miss home already.’
‘And how do you find London, Betsy?’
‘Oh, it is very beautiful, my lady—I mean, Marguerite. And very interesting.’ She pronounced her name ‘Margaret’, but she had a lovely, melodious voice, with a slight northern accent. Her face clouded over. ‘I am a country girl at heart, but now my Papa wants me to be a lady, and make a good match.’
‘Well, do not worry about that yet, try to enjoy yourself for a while first. Do you not like to dance?’
Betsy smiled. ‘I do, but at home, with boys I know well. I should make a fool of myself here.’
‘Nonsense. You will soon make friends. Come, let us get some lemonade.’
Marguerite rose and saw the girl’s parents smile benignly at them. She led the way to a table where drinks were served. As they sipped their lemonade, she realised her task would be difficult: her friends, quick to flock around her usually, were all keeping away. Then one of her group, a young man named Selby, having failed to notice her, came to the table for a glass of wine. She said, putting a hand on his arm, ‘Mr Selby, here is Miss Swinton, just arrived from the country. She does not know many people yet.’
The young man bowed, said a couple of polite words, and looked ready to make his escape, until he saw the glint in Marguerite’s eye. She said, ‘I am sure Mr Selby would like to dance with you, Betsy, would you not, Selby?’ She glared at him.
Selby knew that when Marguerite was on the warpath, there was no denying her, and he was smitten by her like many another, so he said, ‘Of course, ma’am. Will you do me the honour, Miss Swinton?’ He bowed.
Betsy was blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you can. Mr Selby is a good dancer, he will lead you.’
To his credit, Selby smiled at the girl as he took her hand to lead her into the set. Marguerite sighed—it would not be easy for Betsy. The beau monde were so entrenched in their codes of conduct, their ridiculous self-regard—being in trade was a death-knell. She stood for a moment by the table sipping at her lemonade, and saw Argyle approaching. He said, ‘Who is your new friend, Lady Marguerite?’
‘Miss Swinton. They are just arrived in town—her father is a baronet.’
‘Seeking a husband for the girl, I assume. They are very vulgar, are they not?’
‘Vulgarity is not a sin, Your Grace. Unkindness is.’
‘Still, I do not think she will make a suitable friend for you.’
‘Are you afraid she will contaminate me? She is only guilty of bad taste, not of a contagious disease. I will try to make life easier for her amongst the young people. One cannot help one’s birth—one is only responsible for one’s character.’
Argyle bowed and turned to get some wine. She saw she had annoyed him and was amused—he really was too high in the instep for his own good. She thought she might take Betsy riding in the park for, being a country girl, she was sure to ride well. She went to talk to Betsy’s parents, who were both wreathed in smiles, watching their daughter dancing. They acquiesced readily, thanking Marguerite with dignity and warmth.
* **
Her idea proved excellent, because the next day at the park gates, Betsy, accompanied by a groom, arrived mounted on a spirited hunter. She was dressed in a severe if tight-fitting blue velvet habit which showed off her curves and brought out the colour of her eyes, and was only embellished by a couple of pheasant feathers in her hat. She rode beside Marguerite, smiling at her with shining eyes.
‘Thank you so much, my lady, you have been so kind. I feel more comfortable on horseback than in a ballroom, dressed up like a turkey. Papa is so proud of us he spares no expense, and I am afraid it is all a little…much.’
‘It is understandable, though, don’t you think? He wants the best for you.’
Betsy said frankly, ‘He wants us to become gentry. He has sent my brothers to Harrow, and then they will go to Oxford. He is bringing them up to be gentlemen. At least they are both clever and will benefit from a good education. And he wants me to be a lady, which I’m sure I am not. I like horses and dogs, and the farm. And I love going to his warehouses.’
‘Warehouses?’ Marguerite was curious.
‘Yes, he trades in cloth. Oh, Margaret, you cannot believe the beauty—cashmeres from India and silks and brocades…big rolls of them. I love running the lengths through my hands…the whole county buys from us.’
Marguerite smiled with genuine interest. ‘I would like to see it.’
‘You must visit us sometime. That is, unless I am made to marry some stuffy old gentleman and live in the city.’ Her face clouded over.
‘I am sure your father wants you to be happy. He will not force you.’
Betsy laughed. ‘He says he wants me to marry for love. Love, attached to a title.’
Marguerite laughed with her, and said, ‘Come, let us have a canter.’
