A Second Spring (15 page)

 “One of the footmen helped you upstairs, and Doro’s abigail put you to bed.”

 “Oh.” She had not exactly imagined that Sir Lionel might have performed that office, she assured herself.

 “It’s signed ‘L. Tiverton,’“ Georgie continued, “and then there is a postscript: ‘Do not forget, you promised not to speak prematurely of a certain matter to a certain person.’ How mysterious! I daresay he was afraid the person might read his note. What does he mean, Aunt Chloe?” She blenched. “You did not promise not to warn me he is going to offer?”

 “Of course not, goose. He asked me to postpone any attempt to make your father listen to reason until he has made up his mind whether to ask for your hand.”

 “Then he is not set upon it?” Georgie asked joyfully. “Papa gave me to understand he is on the point of popping the question.”

 “Pray don’t use such a vulgar phrase, you abominable girl.”

 “I was quoting Papa. Is Sir Lionel—or is he not—determined to marry me?”

 “He says he is open to argument. That is why I am to drive with him, to present my arguments.”

 “How clever of you to think of approaching him, dearest Aunt. I was in the depths of despair when I wrote to you, ready to clutch at any straw, or I should never have imagined Papa might heed you. I must have been all about in my head. But Sir Lionel will not insist upon taking an unwilling bride. He is too good-natured by far.”

 “Good-natured!” Chloe exclaimed. “If you have such a high opinion of him, why are you so averse to marrying him?”

 “I told you, he is old.”

 “Not near so old as you led me to believe.”

 “I never said he was decrepit, or senile. But he is more than twice my age, more than old enough to be my father. Arabella Molesworth says he complained last winter of a twinge of rheumatism and her mama advised him to wear flannel next to the skin!”

 “Disgraceful!”

 “He is quite her favourite uncle, hers and her brothers’, but only think how shocking to be married to a friend’s uncle! Why, I should be Arabella’s aunt, and she is a year older than me.”

 “I do see what you mean, my dear. However, I doubt Sir Lionel can be counted upon to see things in quite the same light. He spoke very highly of you. I believe him to be deeply in love, or why did he not assure me immediately that he would not pursue his suit?”

 “If he truly loves me,” Georgie cried, “he will not wish to make me unhappy. You must explain to him, Aunt Chloe. Tell him I like him very well as a friend, but...but my sentiments are not such as he must hope for in a wife.”

 “Oh, Georgie, it is really very awkward. When I believed him a dotard of sixty or seventy, though I hesitated to confront a stranger, at least I had arguments aplenty. Since you regard him as a friend, can you not inform him yourself of your sentiments?”

 “Not before he makes me an offer. It would be shocking presumption.”

 “I suppose so,” Chloe agreed reluctantly.

 “And if I wait until he proposes— He can hardly do so without Papa knowing about it, and if I refuse him Papa will never forgive me. He will shut me up at Dene forever, and not let me go even to the local assemblies, still less another London Season. He said so.”

 “Oh dear!”

 “He never changes his mind. You know he does not!” Tears filled Georgie’s eyes. “I shall spend the rest of my life in disgrace, with Papa shouting at me, withering away into an old maid.”

 “Like me,” said Chloe through stiff lips.

 “Dear Aunt, that’s not what I meant!” Georgie scrambled along the bed and put consoling arms around Chloe. “You have not withered a bit, I swear it, and you have been a mother to us, to me and Doro and John and Bernard and Paul, so you don’t count as an old maid. But you do see, don’t you, that my only hope is for you to persuade Sir Lionel not to ask Papa for my hand?”

* * * *

 Chloe had brought with her only one evening gown, almost new, and her best, of course. When she wore it to a local assembly, she had been pleased with the simple pearl-grey crepe frock opening over a claret satin slip, attractive yet dignified. The pearl-grey toque made a statement, if only to herself, that her fair hair was as yet untouched by grey; its spray of dark red silk rosebuds seemed to reinforce the roses in her cheeks.

 Not that anyone had noticed. She was just Georgina Bannister’s chaperon, Squire Bannister’s spinster sister, poor thing. Her rôle was to sit with the matrons and add her murmurs to their chatter of servants and receipts and childish ailments and their daughters’ chances of making respectable marriages.

 Lady Chingford noticed her dress. As Chloe entered the drawing room with Georgie and Dorothea, who had kindly collected her from her chamber, the countess turned from her conversation with her son, Lord Welch. A look of dismay crossed her face, quickly hidden.

 She came forward to greet Chloe. “My dear Miss Bannister, I trust you are quite recovered from your journey?”

 “Yes, thank you, Lady Chingford,” Chloe responded, hugely relieved that the countess had apparently not been informed of her afternoon’s escapade. “My room is most comfortable.”

 “Excellent. I daresay, however, you will not wish to be gadding about this evening. We are bound for Lady Jersey’s rout, always an exhausting experience.”

 Chloe obliged: “I shall be the better for an early night, I believe, ma’am.”

 “Very true. And tomorrow you will wish to visit a dressmaker, a tedious and tiring but unavoidable business.” Her ladyship looked round as Edgar came in. “I have just been telling your sister, Mr Bannister, that she will do well not to delay ordering the necessary gowns for her visit. The modistes are excessively busy at this time of year.”

 “New gowns?” Edgar stared. “Chloe don’t need new gowns when she’s off home in a day or two.”

 Lady Chingford fixed him with an incredulous eye. “A day or two, after travelling such a distance?” she said. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. As Lady Welch’s aunt, Miss Bannister is naturally welcome to stay at Chingford House as long as she chooses to remain in Town.”

 “By Jove, of course she is,” Lord Welch put in, stepping forward. “Dorothea’s always saying, ma’am, how she wishes you had come up with Miss Georgina instead of... er, hrumph... to enjoy the Season, that is.”

 Dorothea nodded, cast a nervous glance at her father, and scurried to the safety of her husband’s side.

 Edgar looked about to have an apoplectic fit. Before Chloe could soothe him with an assurance that she did not plan a long stay, Lord Chingford came in and dinner was announced.

 Seated between the earl and his son, Chloe had to endure no worse than glares from Edgar during the meal. Afterwards, in the bustle of departure for Lady Jersey’s rout, she was about to slip away when her brother cornered her.

 “I don’t know what sort of game you’re—”

 “Oh, Miss Bannister!” Lady Chingford interrupted. “Will ten o’clock be too early for you to accompany me to the modiste?”

 “Why, no, ma’am, but—”

 “One must be seen to appear at Lady Jersey’s, but I have no intention of staying late, so ten o’clock in the morning will suit me very well. We shall avoid the crush.”

 “But indeed, there is no need!” said Chloe, flustered.

 “There is every need,” Lady Chingford proclaimed, her imperious gaze turned on Edgar, not Chloe.

 “I daresay m’sister could do with a dress or two,” he said grudgingly.

 The countess gave him a pitying smile and said to Chloe, “Gentlemen have simply no notion of the demands of fashion. Ten o’clock it is. Good night, ma’am. Your arm, sir, if you please.” And she whisked Edgar out to the carriage.

 Chloe could not decide whether Lady Chingford’s aim was to be kind to her, to put Edgar in his place, or just to alleviate the agony of seeing a relation-by-marriage badly dressed. Or all three. It hardly mattered. Edgar was bound to insist on her returning to Dene the day after tomorrow, and then he could cancel the order.

 One or two gowns in the latest London mode to dazzle her neighbours with would have been nice, but she did not spend long in vain regrets. She fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

 Waking in the morning with a feeling of anticipation, Chloe at once recollected that she was to drive out with Sir Lionel that afternoon. She ought to be nervous. The drive was no pleasure excursion and baronet had every right to take exception to her meddling. Yet the prospect filled the day with sunshine.

 In sudden alarm, she slipped out of bed, crossed to the window, and peeped out between the pink damask curtains. Yes, sunshine! For once the weather was cooperating.

 As she opened the curtains, a maid came in. “I’ll do that, ma’am. Here’s your tea, ma’am. Her ladyship’s compliments and she’ll send her dresser to help you dress. Was you wishful to take breakfast in bed, ma’am, or to go down?”

 Breakfast in bed? What a treat! Chloe was very tempted, especially as it would enable her to avoid Edgar for a little longer. “What do the other ladies do?” she asked.

 “They stays in bed after a party, ma’am, which is mostly, ‘less Miss Georgina’s meeting her friends for an early ride in Hyde Park.”

 So Chloe breakfasted in bed, lingering over a second cup of tea until the countess’s tall, stately dresser arrived.

 She suspected the woman had been sent at least partly to make sure she wore something which would not put Lady Chingford too much to the blush. A grim silence followed the opening of the wardrobe door. The contents offered very little choice. At last the abigail took out the blue cambric muslin walking dress, already miraculously washed, dried, and ironed.

 Chloe could have told her it was the only possibility.

* * * *

 The visit to the dressmaker proved not half the ordeal she had expected. Lady Chingford, having complimented her on her sense of colour, took the reins into her own hands as far as materials and modes were concerned.

 “Living isolated in Lancashire, my dear Miss Bannister, you cannot be expected to know what is being worn this Season. I shall not take you to my own modiste, who is, I confess, a trifle expensive, but this woman has dressed Miss Georgina most adequately.”

 All Chloe had to do was stand still to be measured. She ventured a timid protest when she understood the vast quantity of gowns Lady Chingford considered indispensable. The countess assured her her brother was well able to stand the nonsense. “I daresay you are unaware of the depths of Mr Bannister’s pockets,” she said kindly. “Naturally Chingford enquired into his circumstances when first my son acquainted us with his desire to marry Dorothea. I was, of course, more concerned with her character. A pretty-behaved girl, and with sound principles, I believe, as is Miss Georgina. You are to be congratulated.”

 Silenced, Chloe reminded herself that Edgar would be able to cancel the order long before more than two or three gowns were even cut out.

 By the time they left the modiste, she was beginning to fret that she would be late for her appointment with Sir Lionel. She could not very well ask Lady Chingford to order her coachman to make haste, since she was not supposed to be acquainted with anyone in Town.

 Then it dawned on her that Sir Lionel could not possibly pick her up at Chingford House without the whole household knowing—including Edgar. How on earth was she to explain?

 All the way back in the comfortable barouche, she racked her brains in vain.

 When they reached Chingford House, a smart landaulet with both hoods down stood before the door, a groom holding the horses. “Lady Molesworth’s, I believe,” said the countess, rather to Chloe’s surprise, as she had expected Sir Lionel’s curricle. At least he had not taken umbrage and left on finding her not at home, though it must be quite ten minutes past the hour. She hurried down from the barouche the moment the footman let down the step.

 “I shall be happy to make you known to Lady Molesworth,” said Lady Chingford, descending in a more leisurely manner. “A charming woman, and she is bringing out her youngest daughter this Season, so you will find common ground, no doubt.”

 Perhaps Sir Lionel had come, in his curricle as expected, and gone again. Chloe’s heart sank. Her discourtesy in missing him must have offended his sister, and Chloe’s dowdy appearance would confirm Lady Molesworth’s disdain. Not that her opinion really mattered if Sir Lionel was equally offended.

 On the other hand, if they both held Georgina’s aunt in contempt, Sir Lionel might change his mind about wanting to marry Georgie. Somehow the notion did not cheer Chloe as it ought.

 As she plodded up the steps and into the house after Lady Chingford, another horrid possibility struck her. Could Lady Molesworth have come to say her brother had belatedly recalled an earlier appointment—that is, had found something better to do with his afternoon than to drive out with a drab provincial spinster?

 A distinctly peculiar spinster, Chloe thought, blushing as she remembered her freakish behaviour of yesterday afternoon. She could not blame Sir Lionel if he wished never to set eyes on her again.

 The butler murmured something to Lady Chingford and she nodded. As he moved towards the drawing-room door, her ladyship turned to Chloe and said with a significant look, “Not Lady Molesworth—her brother has called. Unless I am much mistaken, Sir Lionel is quite taken with Miss Georgina. An excellent match if she can catch him. Come, I shall make you known to him.”

 He had come! He had waited for her! Chloe’s spirits soared.

 But what would he say when they were introduced to each other as strangers? Between the butler, opening the door, and Lady Chingford, Chloe caught a glimpse of her brother. He looked smugly self-satisfied. His smugness would quickly turn to fury when he discovered she had already met Sir Lionel.

 Altogether flustered, she turned a beseeching gaze on the baronet as he came forward to bow to Lady Chingford, though how he was to guess what she meant, she could not imagine.

 Straightening from his bow, he smiled at her, and one eye flickered shut in a fleeting but unmistakable wink. Chloe scarcely heard a word of Lady Chingford’s introduction.

 Sir Lionel bowed again and said gravely, “How do you do, ma’am.”