Authors: Janice Bennett
“I shall have to change first though I am in a quake to visit a Bond Street
modiste
wearing a gown I made myself.”
“Nonsense. You shall do neither.” Xanthe smiled brightly at her, humming softly. After a moment she said, “There. What do you think? And remember it is only temporary.”
Phoebe looked down and found herself clad not in her ancient riding habit of faded black merino but a morning gown of jaconet muslin with tiny puff sleeves and a wide flounce at the hem. “It is beautiful, ma’am,” she breathed.
Xanthe beamed at her. “I thought you might like it. We shall order you a similar one.”
Phoebe looked up, startled. “But there is no need! You have made such a lovely dress.”
“But it will not last, my love. Anything wrought by my magic will fade once you have left London.”
“I won’t have need—” She broke off. She had no idea what she would need once she left London. If she were lucky enough to marry she would indeed need a trousseau of sorts. If she were not lucky— The bleakness of the alternative chilled her.
“And what will you say when some envious young lady asks for the name of your
modiste
? No, my dear, you must be seen to order dresses.” And with that Xanthe swept them from the room.
Less than twenty minutes later the fashionable barouche set them down before the exclusive establishment of
Madame
Bernadette. Less than twenty minutes after that Phoebe heartily wished herself elsewhere. What, she wondered as the hands crept their slow journey around the clock, had ever persuaded her that a visit to a
modiste
of the first stare could be classified as one of the delights of a London Season? An experience, certainly. A delight, never. She had known that such an endeavor must necessarily involve the detailed discussion of the relative merits of various styles of sleeves and skirts, of trims and ribands and ruffles. Yet her reflections had grossly skimmed over the torture of standing for hour upon hour while seamstresses crawled about one, stabbing in pins, tucking, fitting and exclaiming all the while that one had only to be a little patient and the job soon would be done.
As the noon hour came and went they supplied her with tea and quite excellent little cakes but memories of the truly exquisite meals conjured by Xanthe crept their wistful way into her thoughts. She could use a good solid nuncheon. She also wouldn’t mind sitting down.
The array of gauzes and muslins, of silks and crepes she and Lady Xanthe had inspected left her quite dizzy and the number of gowns her godmother deemed necessary to purchase rather than merely conjure horrified her. But to all of her objections Lady Xanthe paid not the least heed. A walking dress of primrose muslin, a carriage dress of pale green merino, an evening dress of peach-colored silk and another of pale blue crepe, even a riding habit of deep blue velvet, her godmother assured her, would be necessary for her whatever became of her next.
Which only served to remind her once more that this Season offered no certainties, only opportunities. And she had sworn to make the most of them. Well why should she not meet someone she could love and who could love her? That was, after all, the ultimate magic. And Xanthe’s presence served as living, tangible proof that anything was possible.
Lady Xanthe tilted her head to one side and began to hum softly to herself, a rather pretty melody. She broke off abruptly and rose to her feet. “There, my love, we are quite finished for the day. Shall we go?”
Phoebe cast her a curious glance but Xanthe’s expression betrayed nothing but amused pleasure.
Leaving wasn’t quite so simple though. Last words had to be exchanged confirming the latest additions to their order but finally the seamstresses gathered their pattern pieces, the lengths of cloth and the list of Phoebe’s measurements and carried their burdens to the tables that lined the back walls.
Madame
Bernadette nodded in satisfaction then once more picked up her notes on their order to double-check each of the decisions that had taken all morning to reach.
At length the
modiste
ushered them through the curtain and into the front room of her establishment. They repeated their farewells and Phoebe at last escaped into the bright clear day and the early afternoon sun that filled Bruton Street. As she stood for a moment, welcoming the fresh air, the soft sound of Lady Xanthe’s humming reached her, a scrap of tune that sounded familiar to Phoebe though she couldn’t quite place it.
Their barouche waited only a few steps away but as Phoebe started toward it a landaulet drew up behind. Its occupant, a tall woman just past middle age, of comfortable proportions and a decided flare for fashion, waved a cheery hand. “Lady Xanthe, what a delight to see you again. Is this your goddaughter?”
Xanthe took her hand then gestured for Phoebe to join them. She performed the introduction, adding, “Mrs. Mannering occupies one of the houses next to us in Half Moon Street, my dear.”
“So we are neighbors.” Mrs. Mannering beamed at her.
The woman, Phoebe decided, reminded her of a dumpling. A very fashionable one of course but a dumpling nevertheless. A softness characterized her features and her eyes, neither quite blue nor quite gray, held a sentimental glow. One could smother in her comfortable air of coziness yet one couldn’t help but like her.
A sudden gleam lit Mrs. Mannering’s eyes. “Lady Xanthe, you must come to dinner this evening. Say you will. Just potluck, you know. Nothing special. But it will give our girls a chance to become acquainted. I am chaperoning my niece for the Season, you see,” she added to Phoebe.
Xanthe accepted with pleasure and Phoebe with a secret thrill of delight. Her first party. It would be small of course, probably consisting of only the four of them but that didn’t matter. It would be her first.
Mrs. Mannering accepted the hand of her footman to dismount from her carriage, repeated that she looked forward to seeing them that evening and entered the establishment of
Madame
Bernadette. Xanthe watched her retreating figure and smiled that serene smile that spoke of mysteries and promises. After a moment she returned her attention to her surroundings and ushered Phoebe into their waiting barouche.
Phoebe sank back against the comfortable cushions with a sigh of pure pleasure, relieved to be sitting and not to have anyone crawling around her with a mouth full of pins. And tonight she would attend a dinner party and wear not one of her serviceable merino gowns with their high necks and long sleeves but something pretty that Xanthe would undoubtedly conjure just for the occasion. It would be a wonderful evening.
Lady Xanthe began to hum again, this time an unusual haunting melody that made Phoebe think of twilight gardens in early summer, of moonlight cascading across still waters, of song birds trilling to their hearts’ delight from the depths of flowering shrubs. Phoebe glanced at her, aware of the serenity of the ageless face—and the unquenchable humor of her violet eyes. In one of her pupils, Phoebe would have instantly suspected brewing mischief. In Lady Xanthe, it seemed twice as likely.
A fashionable barouche with a crest blazoned on its panel approached from the opposite direction, pulled by a pair of showy chestnuts. In the back sat a woman in a fur trimmed pelisse and a modish high poke bonnet, her haughty countenance wearing an expression of boredom. Lady Xanthe’s humming increased in tempo for a moment and the woman in the other carriage looked up, her gaze uncertain as it came to rest on them. Abruptly her face transformed into a radiant smile. “I shall send you a card for my musical
soirée
,” she called and waved as the carriages separated in the traffic.
Phoebe craned to catch another glimpse of this generous personage then turned to regard her godmother in a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “And who was that kind lady?”
“Lady Hessel.” Xanthe’s tone held mischievous satisfaction. “And I would not classify her as kind. She is excessively toplofty but you won’t mind that. You will meet only the most important people at her house.”
“I am not one of the most important people,” Phoebe pointed out.
Xanthe shook her head, that smile of secret enjoyment more pronounced. “If you weren’t then you wouldn’t be invited, now would you, my dear?”
“She wasn’t inviting me. She was inviting you. And since I heard you humming I am tolerably certain she has never laid eyes on you before.”
Xanthe straightened, regarding her with offended dignity. “I would never try to influence someone against their will. That would be quite wrong in me. Besides,” she added, tilting her head to one side, sudden laughter dancing in her eyes. “It is not really conjuring if someone responds to an idea that is floating about, is it? I never impressed it upon her after all.”
“No, of course you did not.” Phoebe regarded her in fascination. “Nor did you seek to influence Mrs. Mannering. The idea is utterly preposterous.”
Xanthe’s smile deepened. “I am so glad you understand.”
“Of course I do. It is the most natural thing in the world for a complete stranger—and a very important one at that—to know who we are and invite us to her very select gathering. I daresay it happens to every young lady making her curtsy to society.”
“Well how can you possibly meet any eligible gentlemen if you never go anywhere or do anything?” Xanthe settled back in the carriage. “Do you know, we have yet to actually attend a party but I find I am already enjoying myself immensely.”
“That is because you were not the one being fitted.” A ragged sigh escaped Phoebe. “I fear I shall simply fall asleep this evening and quite ruin Mrs. Mannering’s dinner party.”
Xanthe patted her hand. “Never mind, my love. You may lie down for a while when we get home.”
“I thought we were to go to Grafton House.”
Xanthe made a dismissive gesture. “The most knowledgeable people, it seems, go in the morning. Tomorrow morning in fact,” she added after a moment’s reflection, “for you must have several pairs of silk stockings and a shawl before tomorrow night and I do so hate to waste magic on such trifles.”
Phoebe brightened at this mention of a second invitation. “Where do we go?”
“A card party at Arnsdale House. You shall like it excessively, I promise you. And it will give you the opportunity to meet some more people. I suppose,” she added thoughtfully, “we ought to present you at Court.”
Presentation at Court. Phoebe leaned her head back against the squabs. It didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Xanthe unerringly knew the best shops. Other ladies, wealthy ones with prominent titles, gave way to her. People whose names Phoebe had heard her pupils whisper with awe bowed and waved to Xanthe. It seemed not a single door in London would remain shut to them.
Even, Phoebe wondered with a sudden flicker of anticipation, that holiest of holies, Almack’s? She couldn’t let herself believe that might be possible, not after the way her pupils had always spoken of it in hushed accents. No, there was no likelihood of it. No matter what magical capabilities Lady Xanthe might possess, Phoebe remained a penniless nobody, lacking so much as a single relative who might make her acceptable to the lofty patronesses.
“Lady Sefton,” pronounced Xanthe in an offhanded tone, “has promised to send you vouchers for Almack’s. Should you like that, my love?”
Phoebe opened her mouth, closed it again then managed, “How?”
Xanthe laughed, a delightful musical sound. “I promised you a Season, did I not? It couldn’t possibly be complete without a visit to Almack’s.”
“But how?” Phoebe repeated. “I might never have been to London before but I know a great deal about society and for me to go to Almack’s— It is simply impossible. I’m a nobody! No mere suggestion could accomplish that.”
“You may tell me so again three weeks from Wednesday night when you are to make your first appearance.”
Phoebe stared out at the passing carriages without really seeing them. Xanthe more than lived up to her part of the covenant. Phoebe had every opportunity to meet any number of eligible gentlemen and leaders of society at that, with sufficient wealth to consider Thomas’ expenses trifling. But would she be able to fulfill her part? Would any of them be seized by the desire to make her his wife? And if by chance any one was, would she desire to become his wife?
This is no time for missishness
, she reminded herself. Xanthe had granted her this one and only Season. If she wasted it her future loomed bleak. So she couldn’t waste it. If she were so fortunate as to receive an offer she could not afford to reject it.
And why should I not receive one
? she rallied herself. Anything seemed possible when Lady Xanthe hummed her magical tunes.
By the time the barouche at last turned onto Half Moon Street they had received two more invitations, both for balls. And before each invitation Xanthe had hummed one of her mysterious haunting melodies. Not influencing people of course, Phoebe reminded herself, smiling at Xanthe’s rationalization. Merely putting suggestions out where they might be intercepted and acted upon.
As they drew up before the house the door opened at once and Arthur, the senior footman, hurried down to hand them from the carriage. Phoebe paused to glance at the neighboring house just to the left. “Is that where Mrs. Mannering lives?”
Xanthe turned back from the door. “There? Oh no, dear. The other side.”
“The other—” Phoebe broke off. “The other side. Directly next door to us?”