 Hampshire, England, February of 1815
The Dowager Duchess of Cavehill sat in an elegant drawing room drinking her morning tea. The chintz settee on which she sat was barely worn, and was accented with pink throw pillows. A fire blazed in the ornate hearth, dispelling winter’s chill. The firelight made the room surprisingly inviting, and it reminded her how much she loved her country home. Still, she longed for spring, when the gardens would be pristinely groomed.
The manor was quaint and lavish, and even though she had not thrown a ball in years, the gold-leafed ballroom could easily hold five hundred guests. The house felt too large for just one person, but she never considered a smaller home. It was three stories high, and a hodge-podge of different architectural styles. Each successive Duke of Cavehill had made changes to the home that were architecturally relevant in their time, and so the duchess was left with an exceedingly interesting manor that showed the prestige and age of her title.
She smoothed a non-existent crease in her gray mourning dress and sighed thoughtfully. She had not felt the desire to entertain or socialize since the death of her son, Edward, a year ago.
Perhaps it was time for a companion. Maybe then she would learn again to enjoy pleasant dinners and idle conversation with her friends. But she was not old enough for a companion, she thought derisively. She was still young, just past sixty with an upright carriage and a nearly unlined face. Her hair was decidedly gray, but that did not diminish the lucidity of her clear, brown eyes.
There was a sharp knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called. Amelia’s aging butler stepped into the room and handed her a letter.
“This just came for you, Madam,” Benson intoned.
“Thank you. I will have another cup of Twinings, Benson.” She quickly dismissed him and examined the nondescript, white envelope. It had come from Paris, and though she had many friends in Paris, she did not recognize the return address. Perhaps it was news of Napoleon and his dastardly war.
After she was finished reading the letter, the duchess sat in silence awhile and gazed out the window. She watched as snow drifted down from the white sky and covered the trees, and even after Benson brought her another cup of tea she did not move. She was lost in thought regarding the letter’s contents.
It was not right to curse the dead, but she could not stem her angry thoughts. Her son was gone, yet his indiscretions remained. Edward had done his duty as any good son would, and at five and twenty, had married a woman of quality. He subsequently produced an heir who ensured proper succession of the dukedom. And, like other men of the gentry, Edward kept a mistress discreetly tucked away; a Parisian ballet dancer who had given him two daughters out of wedlock.
Two daughters Amelia had known nothing about until Benson handed her a letter from the eldest girl.
Ivy Sinclair.
Why was it the French always flaunted convention and named their children outlandish names and wore dresses that barely covered their bodies? Why were they so different from the proper English, and why was she suddenly angry at all things French?
The duchess’s thoughts raced wildly. News of two illegitimate granddaughters would be a shock to anyone, but particularly someone of Amelia’s status in society. Ivy’s letter was clear, and the duchess had a choice to make.
After sitting awhile and contemplating her options, she realized there were only two choices. She could allow her granddaughters to become completely impoverished, as they almost were already, or she could prevent their destitution by taking them in, which would save them the misery of a peasant life.
Damn Edward for leaving such a mess to clean up! The humiliation the Cavehill family might bear if this news were to emerge in polite society had the potential to make Amelia a laughing stock. It was a good thing Robert was away touring the Continent. She could only imagine his outrage.
She thought about sending Robert a letter apprising him of the news, but she did not even know where to send it. Her grandson’s communication had been non-existent since the death of his father, Edward. Amelia simply awoke one morning to find Robert gone, with no hint as to his plans for return. At least he had left a note stating his desire to see the continent, and not done something asinine like join in the war against Napoleon.
Amelia had been alone for five years since the death of her husband, whom she had loved very much. It was unusual for her to have married for love, but her parents had not been against the match; William was a duke, after all.
Now Amelia was alone, mourning the loss of her husband and son, and her only grandson was somewhere on a war stricken continent.
Amelia and William had only one son, Edward, and they doted on him accordingly. He had been charming, intelligent and diligent in doing the right thing since he was a child, Amelia thought. How could it have been, then, that he managed to father two children out of wedlock without providing for them financially?
The duchess would not yield to the baser instincts of her displeasure, as was her right. Her physician had told her before to be mindful of her temper. It was not good for her heart, he said. She wished she were fifteen years younger so she could rant as she pleased.
Amelia closed her eyes and tried to clear her head. She had asked Benson for a cup of tea, but she should have asked for a tall glass of sherry.
***
Le Havre, France
“What do you think the Duchess of Cavehill is like?” Willow asked as she pulled up the collar of her thin, light-blue coat.
Ivy shrugged and huddled close to her younger, taller sister. “Probably like any other high society woman. Cold. Polite. Angry to find out that she has two illegitimate grandchildren.”
The untimely death of their mother six months ago had thrown the girls’ world into chaos. The small pension their mother had left them from the Paris Opéra Ballet had all but dried up, despite the fact that they had not finished their dance training. Ivy needed just one more year before she was ready to take the stage. She had been training all her life to become a ballet dancer, only to discover that she might never live her dreams.
With no skills other than language and dance, the girls were unable to pay rent on their small flat and had been on the brink of eviction. In all, they were penniless, and Ivy had contacted the duchess as their last hope. It was the only way they could avoid being thrown out into the streets of Paris to fend for themselves. Ivy had stayed up half the night trying to think of another way for them to stay in Paris and continue on with their lives, but there was no other way. She realized that they had no immediate family, and no reliable social connections other than a paternal grandmother in England, who quite inconveniently knew nothing of their existence.
The duchess’s response was swift. She agreed to take the girls in under two conditions; one, they would enter society as ladies and do away with the nonsense of becoming prima ballerinas, and two, they would marry in accordance with her wishes. Were they to accept her offer, the stipulations were non-negotiable.
Not left with any other choices, Ivy had used all the money they had remaining to book passage on the next ship out of Le Havre bound for Portsmouth, England. They packed what few clothes they had and set out on a two-day journey toward the port.
Despite its lack of comforts the trade vessel to England was their new home for the next two days, and it gave them both more than enough time to consider how far they were traveling from all that was familiar.
It was hard for Ivy to imagine a life without their mother, a retired ballerina who imparted her love of ballet to the girls. They had studied five days a week for five to eight hours a day. Their lives were consumed with ballet.
Ivy looked at her younger, apprehensive sister. Willow had enjoyed ballet, but did not love it the way Ivy did. Willow was not at all concerned about being thrown into a new world or a new life. Ivy shivered, but not just from the cold.
What would England hold for them?
***
Hampshire, England
A winsome blonde pushed a bottle of fifty-year-old brandy in front of her family’s middle-aged butler as he reclined in a scarred wooden chair in the kitchen.
“Now, what could this be for?” Cartwright drawled.
Lord and Lady Fitzgerald had employed him for over twenty years. He managed to give everyone who came to call the impression that he was upright, good at his job and even happy to do it. Little did they know that Cartwright was easily bribed for sensitive information with little more than a bottle of good liquor. He seemed to know something about everyone, and footmen and maids rarely spoke in jest around him, afraid he would report everything to the master and mistress of the house. He was loyal to no one but himself.
The young woman’s hazel eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms. “You know what, Cartwright. Father had a meeting with the Earl of Stanton and I want to know what happened!” she demanded. She pursed her lips in obvious irritation.
The butler smiled. “Seems to me they were discussing betrothals.”
Emily’s hazel eyes shifted from sparks of ire to warmth and delight. The earl was talking to her father about marriage! She nearly gave in to an unladylike squeal.
“Anything else, Cartwright?” she asked hopefully.
He raised an eyebrow. This mistress would make any future husband miserable, he thought. Though she was beautiful and well bred, she was incredibly spiteful, and when riled she had a temper that rivaled an asp’s. She would not make for a welcome bed partner.
“Your father was pressing the earl,” Cartwright said. “If all goes well, you might find yourself engaged in a few weeks.”
Emily tossed an errant blonde curl over her left shoulder, haughtily inclined her head and left the kitchen without saying another word. She had all the information needed, and it was almost time for tea with two close friends… perhaps she would hint to Alyssa and Mathilda about her forthcoming engagement.
Emily sat on a couch with her skirts spread around her fetchingly and opened a book. She hoped to lose herself in it and pass the time while she waited for her friends to arrive.
But thoughts of her impending betrothal were too much to push away. She thought of the girls she would ask to be her bridesmaids. Not her cousin, Lucy. She was awkwardly rotund and would throw off the entire bridal party vision. Maybe her cousin Victoria… she was tall and graceful, but not very attractive. At least she would not steal focus away from Emily during the procession. And then there were the two girls coming for tea, Mathilda and Alyssa. They would love to be bridesmaids, Emily thought, and both would look just a tad washed out in yellow.
“The ladies are here, Miss Emily,” Cartwright articulated in a perfectly docile tone.
“Send them in, Cartwright.”
A moment later, two young ladies entered the salon. After they exchanged pleasantries and Emily had tea served for them, Mathilda, a petite brunette said, “I understand you are going to Paris for a few weeks?”
Emily nodded. “I am. I will be staying with my favorite aunt for a while, so my parents are allowing me a full French wardrobe for the season this year.”
Alyssa’s blue eyes twinkled inquisitively. “Are you leaving soon?”
Emily smiled and shrugged. “Soon enough.”
Mathilda and Alyssa exchanged looks. “What does that mean?” Alyssa asked.
Emily took a deep breath and then decided she had to confide in someone, and it might as well be her two closest friends.
“I believe I will leave after my betrothal is arranged.” Emily said simply. She tried not to smile, but a grin crossed her face, like a cat that had just eaten an entire bowl of cream.“
The Earl of Stanton?! Truly?” Mathilda cried out, knowing Emily had her heart set on becoming the earl’s countess.
Emily nodded. “He was here visiting my father this morning.”
“He must be on the verge of offering for you,” Alyssa agreed.
“Can you imagine? Emily, you are going to be the next Countess of Stanton!”
Mathilda tried in vein to hide her jealously as the words came pouring out.
Emily could no longer keep from boasting. Her hazel eyes danced merrily as she blurted, “He has been here to see Father numerous times in the past month!”
Mathilda reached over and grabbed Emily’s hand. “Have you thought about your wedding?”
Emily attempted to reign in her satisfaction, but it was difficult. The Earl of Stanton was one of the most eligible bachelors of the year. He had eluded the clutches of numerous girls and their matchmaking mothers, and now Emily was on the verge of becoming his wife. She would get everything she yearned for, she thought, and what she desired most of all was marriage to the Earl of Stanton. She would be a countess. It was all but settled.
***
Amelia’s shrewd brown eyes betrayed nothing of her anger and resentment as she stared at the two young women who sat across from her. The older one, Ivy, sat quietly and touched a perfect red curl of hair. Ivy’s camel colored gown was at least three years old, but it was one of only two that were clean, and she chose to wear the nicest one during her first meeting with her grandmother.
“Would you two care for a cup of tea?” Amelia asked with only the barest hint of civility.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Willow responded nervously. Ivy’s sister was two years younger, blonde, and at the moment on her very best behavior. Ivy, however, intended to show no fear or weakness, regardless of what she had to do to cover her true feelings.
The tension in the room was palpable.
Once the tea was poured, Ivy and the duchess looked at each other cautiously. The older woman seemed to Ivy to be a formidable adversary, and Ivy realized there would be no other way except the duchess’s.
“How was the trip from Paris?” the duchess finally asked, slicing into the awkward silence.
“Pleasant, thank you,” Willow said, looking pointedly at her sister to say something.
“Cold,” Ivy blurted out.
The duchess raised her eyebrows and then said, “England is colder than France as a general rule. Now, enough about the weather. What feminine accomplishments can the two of you list?”
Ivy looked at Willow and then back at the duchess. “What do you mean, Madam?”
The duchess tried to hide her exasperation, but some of it came through. “Do either of you paint? Play the pianoforte? Sing? Sketch, or press flowers into a book? In other words, what is it that you girls can actually do to show that you are well rounded young ladies?”
“Pressing flowers into a book is an accomplishment?” Ivy asked. Her lips began twitching in amusement at the absurdity of Amelia’s suggestion.
Willow interjected when she saw the duchess’s eyes flash in annoyance, “No, Madam. We do none of those things. We had tutors growing up, and we are learned in language and history. And of course, we took ballet dance instruction.” Intelligent and quite astute, Willow thought it wise not to mention her sister’s unladylike love of fishing and riding horses astride.
The duchess pursed her lips in disapproval. “Lessons in ballroom dancing, polite conversation and etiquette will beging immediately. Curtsying and walking in stiff dresses will occur after Madame LaRue, my personal modiste, outfits you for the season, and because the both of you have no feminine accomplishments to your name, I will have painting, singing, and pianoforte instructors come and gauge your potential talent at once. You will then spend at least four afternoons a week cultivating a basis of civility so that you will at least appear to be women of the gentry.”
Willow blinked owlishly, her head spun at the idea of learning such a vast new set of skills. She looked at Ivy to see how she was taking the news, and noticed that Ivy’s hand was curling into a small fist in her lap; a sign of true distress.
“Ballet,” the duchess nearly growled, “will cease. There is no need for it.”
Ivy attempted to suppress her anger at the duchess’s snide tone. She wondered why it was that people of quality almost always thought others were worthless if they did not appear to be ‘ladylike’. Ivy had accomplishments she felt were worthwhile, but now she was being lectured and ridiculed because she was not able to paint a bowl of fruit. And then to be told that she could not continue with her passion… it was simply too much.
The duchess watched as Ivy’s green eyes narrowed in anger, and she wondered if Ivy had the gall to talk back. Amelia almost wished for it, so that part of her misdirected ire could run its course. She wanted to push and prod Ivy to react; to see if her emotions would get the best of her. A lady never lost her temper in public, and this was Ivy’s first test. When Ivy held her tongue, Amelia nodded to herself. At least the unschooled girl knew when not to speak. Perhaps she would not be hopeless in society after all, Amelia thought.
“Dinner will be at eight. Benson will show you to your rooms.” With no choice but to take their leave, the girls moved slowly to the door. Just before she was out the door Willow stopped and said, “Thank you for taking us into your home.” She was more diplomatic and pragmatic than Ivy, who tended to be ruled by her emotions. Not to say that Willow could not be riled, but it took a lot more to ruffle her feathers.
The duchess did not reply, but instead turned her head to look out the window.
“Thank you,” Ivy echoed tonelessly. She did not want to be penniless, but being a lady of society did not sound appealing to her either. She was trapped in the middle of two very different lives. Her familiar and artistic past was being ripped away from her with each passing moment. She knew from the moment she booked passage to England that she and her sister would be thrust into a foreign world.
When Amelia was finally alone she sighed deeply. She had not expected this at all; a feeling of reluctant admiration and hope was spreading through her. Ivy had held her temper well, despite Amelia’s intense provocation.
And why did Ivy have to remind Amelia so much of herself when she was a young girl…
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