Читать книгу The Wayward Debutante - Sarah Elliott - Страница 7

1 July, 1818

“You’ve always been so good, Eleanor,” Beatrice Summerson said appreciatively as her eighteen-year-old sister entered the sunny drawing room bearing a silver tea tray. “Between Ben and Helen and me it’s a mystery how you ended up so well behaved. Father thinks of you as an absolute miracle.”

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m not so good,” Eleanor replied as she laid the tray on a side table. She began organizing its contents without looking at her sister.

Beatrice cocked her head, her eyes slightly worried. “Now, now, you mustn’t protest. You’re perfect, and you couldn’t be a more agreeable guest. Charles and I are grateful to have you.”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said uncertainly. “Would you like a slice of cake, Beazie?”

Beatrice smiled, her concerns momentarily allayed by the prospect. “Well…I am eating for two at the moment.”

Eleanor cut a very large slice, and brought it to her sister, who patted the spot next to her on the yellow damask sofa. “Do have a seat, Eleanor. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Slowly, Eleanor sat. “Oh?”

“Well…I’ve been feeling rather guilty. I know it might seem that Charles and I are terribly busy and distracted with Mark, and with the new baby on the way, but I hope you don’t feel too neglected.”

Eleanor looked down at her lap. “I can entertain myself all right.” There was, she hoped, a melancholic note to her voice.

“And our household must feel very chaotic to you at the moment,” Beatrice continued apologetically. “It’s such a shame that our butler, Cummings, absconded with our downstairs maid. We’re completely disorganized as a result, and I’ve no time to hire new staff. I’m afraid it’s become a bit of a burden to you. You shouldn’t have to help out as much as you do, especially during your first season.”

Eleanor shrugged. “You’ll get a new maid soon enough. Besides, Cummings was kind enough to recommend his father.”

“Yes,” Beatrice sighed, “but while Mr. Cummings Senior is very polite and correct in his manner he’s also completely deaf.”

Eleanor frowned. “You mustn’t let him go. I’m very fond of him.” Realizing her response seemed disproportionately heated, she added, “He’s kind to me.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Eleanor? Is something the matter? You’re behaving rather strange.”

It was Eleanor’s turn to sigh. “No, no, Beazie. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been thinking about the ball this evening.”

“You’re looking forward to it, I hope.”

“I’m afraid I am not.”

Beatrice sank back in the sofa. “Nor am I. But we must do what we must do.”

“Would you like more tea?” Eleanor asked, rising.

Beatrice nodded contentedly. “You’re in an obliging mood this morning. Just a drop of milk, please.”

Eleanor poured the tea in silence, then asked hesitantly, “Would you think it the worst thing if I didn’t go tonight?”

“You’re feeling well, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not that. It’s just, you see, a friend of mine asked me to come for a visit, and I already told her I would—”

“A visit on the night of the Montagu-Dawsons’ ball?”

“Miss Pilkington won’t be going to the ball. She took ill yesterday.”

Beatrice cocked her head slightly. “Pilkington? Have you mentioned her before?”

Eleanor smiled patiently. “Yes. Jane Pilkington. I introduced you to her at the Nortons’ party two weeks ago. Surely you remember.”

Beatrice obviously remembered nothing of the sort, but she agreed nonetheless. “Oh, yes. Of course. You know how scatterbrained I can be.”

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. “I met her at the beginning of the season. She’s come all the way from Yorkshire and doesn’t think her family can afford to send her so far from home next season if she doesn’t meet her match this time. So this ball actually meant a lot to her and she’s devastated she’ll have to miss it. She needs cheering up.”

Beatrice frowned. “I understand your sentiments, but I hope her illness isn’t contagious.”

“Oh, no. It’s just a mild cold, and you know what my constitution is like. It’s her spirits, really, that suffer most. I know I should go to the ball, but I’m sure I won’t be missed in that crush.”

Beatrice shrugged. “I suppose I don’t mind if it’s just this once.”

“Must I go?” her husband, Charles Summerson, asked hopefully from the doorway.

She turned around, making a face. “Absolutely. Lady Montagu-Dawson would never forgive us if we all deserted.”

He groaned and sank down into a chair. “Doesn’t seem a bit fair. Eleanor’s the only reason we’re going in the first place.”

Eleanor sniffed resentfully. “You’ve no idea how fair—produce a sick friend yourself and then you may complain. Besides, I’m the one who’s been to some affair nearly every day for the past two months, aren’t I?”

“She’s right, Charles.” Beatrice stepped in to defend her. “Eleanor is willing to go, but she’s sacrificing her time to help her friend. You, on the other hand, haven’t an unselfish bone in your body.”

Charles regarded Eleanor with mild skepticism but didn’t comment. Beatrice turned her attention back to her sister, concern again on her face. “Are you not enjoying yourself anymore? I’m sorry, but I haven’t even asked you until today…it’s just that you always seemed so eager to have your first season and I only assumed…”

Eleanor hadn’t been enjoying her season for some time now, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Of course I’m having a good time, a splendid time. Really. I only said that because I’ve been overcommitting myself recently.”

“You’re lucky you’re staying with Charles and me rather than with Aunt Louisa—she’d have you go tonight even if you were the sick one.”

Eleanor knew that was true and said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d avoided lodging with her domineering great-aunt. “As it is Aunt Louisa hardly leaves me alone. Every time I see her she asks me why I’m not engaged yet, knowing, of course, that no one’s asked me. She called me a disappointment the last time I saw her.”

“She didn’t!” Beatrice gasped in outrage.

“She did, too—said everyone expected better things of me. I’m trying, Beatrice, really—” She broke off, allowing her lip to tremble convincingly. “I’m not like you, Bea…six proposals in your first season alone…”

Beatrice blushed. “Oh, come, now. We all know you’re trying. You deserve a night off, and it sounds as if Miss…oh…”

“Pilkington.”

“Yes. Miss Pilkington could use your company. Go right ahead.”

Eleanor suppressed the urge to crow with joy. Instead, she folded her hands demurely. “You are the best sister in the world. Jane’s sending her carriage round later and I’ll also be driven home, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“I never worry about you, Eleanor. If you were our dear sister Helen, on the other hand, I’d be worried indeed. But not you.”

“Really?” Eleanor should have been pleased her sister thought so highly of her, but instead she was rather disappointed. Being sensible and dependable was all very well, but…

For a moment they sat without speaking, the only sound provided by Beatrice finishing off her cake. Eleanor began to drum her fingers on her lap. Catching herself, she said, “Oh, my.”

“Yes?” Beatrice asked, her fork poised midair.

“The time, Bea. You’re going to be late.”

“Oh, dear. You’re right. When will I learn?” She deposited her plate on a small satinwood table and Charles helped her rise. As they walked to the door, Beatrice turned around to remark, “By the by, those items arrived from Father’s house early this afternoon. Meg brought them to your room. What on earth do you intend to do with all those clothes? They’re not suitable to wear.”

“Probably planning to rope us into more of her drawing room theatricals,” Charles suggested. “Don’t think for one moment that you’ll get me into that blond wig, Eleanor.”

She grinned, imagining her tall, handsome brother-in-law in the straw-colored woman’s wig that was a staple of her costume collection.

Beatrice just rolled her eyes. “Do try to enjoy yourself with Miss. Pilkington tonight, darling.”

“I will,” Eleanor said, following them out of the room. Indeed, she had a most marvelous evening planned—even if she couldn’t help feeling nervous.

Of course, there wasn’t any Jane Pilkington.

Eleanor started changing her clothes the moment she heard the front door close behind Beatrice and Charles. She didn’t ring for a maid to help. Her wardrobe for the evening was designed to be put on without assistance. A serviceable gray cotton dress with a simple linen collar. Sturdy black boots. The outfit had belonged to a past governess and had been moldering in her father’s attic until she’d rescued it for her costume chest last year. She’d known it would come in useful.

She examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked…passable. She pulled on the blond wig and grimaced. Each of her three siblings was blond. Tall, blond and stunning. Eleanor was quite pretty, she supposed, at least when she wasn’t standing next to one of them. Her hair was brown; she was of medium height; her eyes, at least, were a striking blue. For the time being, however, her less impressive looks were a godsend. She must not be recognized.

She removed the wig and looked away from the mirror with a sigh. I really am a disappointment, she thought as guilt settled over her. As Beatrice had said, she’d always been the good child in the Sinclair family. Ben had been a terrible rake before he’d married, while Beatrice found wedded bliss only after being thoroughly compromised first. Helen promised to be the worst of them and she was only fifteen.

But her family had always assumed that Eleanor would do her duty and wed with relative ease. If only they knew that she didn’t give a fig about getting married, not that anyone seemed interested in proposing to her, anyway. She was far too much the bluestocking, and although men seemed to enjoy her conversation, few glowed with pride to be seen in her presence.

No, the reason she’d longed for a London season was precisely what she was preparing to do tonight. She was going to the theater. It was her favorite thing in the world and had been ever since she’d seen her first play with her family in Bath at the age of nine. She’d have liked nothing more than to be a playwright herself, although that would probably never happen. She’d even like to be an actress, and that would definitely never happen…even though tonight’s performance proved she was perfectly capable.

The closest she’d ever get to these aspirations was sitting in the audience, and since she’d turned sixteen, every trip to London had included as many plays as she’d wanted, provided she could convince a family member to act as chaperone. She’d always imagined her coming-out would basically resemble these earlier trips, but now she was here and Beatrice and Charles were too busy to escort her. A London season, she was dismayed to learn, was serious business. Her life was carefully regimented, and she had little time to attend plays, not unless there was a very good reason to go. The only acceptable reason for her to go anywhere these days was that hordes of eligible men would be there. Getting married took priority.

And she was bored.

So she’d invented Jane. At first, it’d seemed a simple idea: tell Beatrice that she was visiting her dear sick friend but go to see a play instead. She’d disguise herself, and she’d probably only do it once, so what could possibly go wrong? Only now that she’d lied to her sister and dressed up in someone else’s clothes, she knew that everything could go wrong, and probably would. But she was already committed and she was excited, too. She had been well behaved her entire life, and it was about time she experienced a bit of rebellion.

She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, stuffed the wig up one of its voluminous sleeves and headed downstairs. At the bottom of the main staircase the ancient Mr. Cummings dozed fitfully. He jerked awake as she passed him.

“Good evening, Cummings.”

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair,” he responded in his reedy voice. Reluctantly, he began to rise.

“Please, don’t get up,” she chided. “I saw the Pilkingtons’ carriage approaching from my window and am perfectly capable of opening and closing the front door myself.”

“But, miss…” Despite his protests, he had already resumed his seat and showed no sign of rising again.

Eleanor was hard-pressed not to smile. “I insist, Cummings.”

“Very well, miss,” he said, nodding with gratitude, his eyelids already beginning to droop.

Eleanor walked briskly to the door before he could change his mind. Her plan would never have worked if not for Cummings. A younger butler would have insisted on accompanying her to the carriage.

And in this case, there was no carriage. This part of the plan worried her most. She would have to hire a hack. The very idea was scandalous, and she wasn’t even sure how one went about it. She glanced up and down the empty street to see if anyone was watching, pulled her hood over her head and descended the short flight of steps. She hoped she didn’t look too odd. A cloak was one thing, even a lightweight one like hers, but a hood was something else entirely. It was summer, after all.

She tried to look confident as she began to walk, hoping she wouldn’t have to go far. Luckily, the well-lined pockets of the average Belgravia resident meant that hacks wandered down even the less-traveled streets fairly frequently.

That was what she was counting on, anyway, and after a few minutes she spotted one slowly approaching, its driver scanning the street for customers. Holding her breath, she raised her arm and prayed he would stop. Miraculously, he did, and with only a slight tremor in her voice she told him her destination. He didn’t bat an eye.

He didn’t help her into the coach, either. That was a first, but she supposed she’d better get used to it. No proper young lady would dream of riding alone in a hired hack, and the fact that she’d requested one of London’s playhouses as her destination…as far as he was concerned, she wasn’t proper at all.

The hack jerked into motion and Eleanor eased back into the leather seat, feeling more relaxed. She’d just sailed over the first—and biggest—hurdle, and the rest of the evening should be trouble-free. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever feeling as independent as she did at that moment, watching the stately homes of Belgravia gradually give way to the bustle of central London.

She took the wig from her sleeve and pulled it onto her head, carefully tucking away her chestnut hair. Then she removed a small hand mirror from her reticule and examined her reflection. The face that looked back wasn’t any more interesting than it had been before, but she couldn’t help smiling. It was rather nice being a little bit bad…at least as long as luck was running in her favor.