First Season Read online

  This last realization removed the burden of gratitude from Hetty, and she was able to guess at her relatives’ motives for their treatment of her with greater accuracy. She decided her earlier suspicion that she was being intentionally dressed in unflattering clothes was correct, and as she looked with dissatisfaction at her image in the glass that morning she made a second resolution. She would not allow her aunt and cousin to ruin her First Season. She would go to the modiste herself and order several more becoming gowns this very morning. Acting on her resolution before she could be prevented, Hetty rang for Daisy and they set out for Pall Mall.

  When they arrived at Madame Chennault’s, the modiste appeared to recognize the young heiress and ushered her immediately into a private room. Hetty then asked for the modiste’s assistance in selecting flattering patterns and materials.

  With Madame Chennault’s guidance Hetty chose fuller styles and ordered several of the new tunic dresses in silk, two chemise dresses with full gathered tops, three new walking dresses, a curricle cloak of blue velvet, and a pelisse of pink lawn. On impulse, she also ordered two new riding habits. She had not been able to ride in town, but she would be glad for them when she returned to Derbyshire.

  Hetty leaned back in her chair, satisfied she had ordered everything she needed when she saw a beautiful dark red paduasoy among the materials the assistant had brought out.

  “How beautiful!” Hetty exclaimed involuntarily, reaching out to finger the material.

  “Perhaps the same material in a different color would be more suitable for a young girl just making her come-out,” Madame Chennault suggested tactfully.

  “I know young women are expected to wear white and paler colors,” Hetty acknowledged. “But perhaps I could have it made into a gown to take home to Derbyshire.”

  Hetty fingered the heavy rich silk once more, remembering a dress of the same shade of red her mother had given her at Christmas one year, and how her father had called her his little red angel when she wore it. She pulled a fold of the material toward her, seeing in the glass how the rich red brought a glow to her cheeks and enhanced the luster of her dark curls.

  “Yes, I want this made up in a robe to be worn over a gold embroidered petticoat, I think,” she told the modiste.

  “As you wish, Miss Biddle,” the modiste acquiesced, making a notation on her pad.

  Hetty left the shop feeling very pleased with herself. She had even thought to take the precaution of asking that the gowns be delivered early in the morning when they were ready, before her aunt and cousin would be awake. Hetty happily envisioned herself appearing at a ball in one of the new gowns, and could hardly wait until they were finished. At last the Season was going to be what she had hoped it would be.

  That following Saturday the Hardwicks and Hetty were invited to a breakfast at the Arlingtons’. The Duchess of Devonshire had started the fashion of inviting guests to large breakfasts, and Lady Arlington had confided in Lady Hardwick that she wished to be one of the first to hold such a breakfast this Season.

  Hetty thought to herself that “breakfast” was a rather odd name for a meal served at three o’clock in the afternoon, and when she arrived in the company of her aunt and cousin she found it even odder. There were tables upon tables set out and heavily laden with food and crammed with guests. However, there were not enough chairs for everyone present, and those who had arrived late, like the Hardwicks, had to stand about until they saw a place empty, and then try to grab the chair before anyone else could. It was a chaotic scene, to say the least. And the ton has found my manners lacking, Hetty thought in mirth.

  Sophie, never backwards when her best interests were at stake, quickly managed to seize a place next to Mr. Eastman by the simple expedient of shoving a rival aside, and Lady Hardwick appropriated a chair next to an acquaintance at the other end of the table. Hetty remained standing by the wall, thinking it was not worth the effort to try and sit down to eat, when she heard a familiar voice at her side.

  “It is a sad crush, is it not, Miss Biddle?” Lord Wakeford commented.

  “Yes. You may ridicule me on my country ways, Lord Wakeford, but we do not serve breakfast at three in the afternoon, nor force our guests to fight for a place to sit at our tables,” Hetty replied, smiling.

  “I see you are never going to forgive my being responsible for your nickname, Miss Biddle,” Lord Wakeford said ruefully.

  “I may consider it, depending upon your future behavior, Lord Wakeford,” Hetty replied archly. It was difficult to remain on the outs with such a handsome gentleman. Moreover, she was very fond of his sister, Lady Emily.

  “I see I shall have to earn your forgiveness,” Lord Wakeford said. “Perhaps by obtaining you a seat?” he asked, quickly possessing himself of a chair as a guest finished his repast and rose to leave.

  “Thank you, Lord Wakeford,” Hetty said, taking the chair she was offered and smiling at him gratefully.

  “Would you walk with me in Kensington Gardens tomorrow afternoon?” Lord Wakeford asked as he finished seating Hetty. “I can promise it will be a peaceful contrast to this crush.”

  “Thank you, Lord Wakeford, I should enjoy that,” Hetty replied. The marquess smiled an acknowledgement of her acceptance and then left her with a quick bow when he saw another place empty farther down the table.

  Hetty looked after Lord Wakeford thoughtfully. The marquess could be quite charming when he chose. Perhaps she had been too unforgiving and should accept the olive branch he seemed intent on offering. She would consider the matter later, she decided, turning her attention to the food and helping herself to some meat pie and fruit.

  “Would you pass me some of that delicious-looking ham?” Hetty heard another familiar voice request, and turned to her right, delighted to see that Lord Courtney was taking the chair next to hers. “Good afternoon, Lord Courtney,” she said, a pleased smile on her face.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Biddle. The gods are smiling on me today, to cause Mr. Alcock to leave the chair next to yours just as I arrived. Even better, your aunt is nowhere near.”

  Hetty laughed. “It is true Aunt Ernestine does not approve of you. She told me you are a gazetted fortune hunter.”

  Lord Courtney did not join in Hetty’s laughter. “It is true I do not have wealth, Miss Biddle,” he said quietly, “but I give you my word as a gentleman that your fortune is not what captured my interest. Were I only seeking wealth, there are many women whom it would be easier to attract, women whose fortunes are not controlled by their fathers until they are of age.”

  Hetty brightened at Lord Courtney’s last comment, thinking it had the ring of truth. Lord Courtney could not possibly be after her fortune if he knew her father would control it for three years yet.

  “I suppose Lady Hardwick suspects most of your suitors of being fortune hunters,” Lord Courtney commented, taking some strawberries and offering the bowl to Hetty.

  “Not quite all. She has informed me that Lord Satre does not need money, and I do not think she suspects Lord Wakeford of being a fortune hunter.”

  “Lord Wakeford is one of your suitors?” Lord Courtney asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “I suppose I should not call him a suitor, precisely,” Hetty elucidated, “but he has been seeking my company quite often. It has rather puzzled me, I must confess.”

  Lord Courtney laid down his fork and looked at Hetty hesitantly. “I am not certain I should repeat gossip to you, Miss Biddle, but it distresses me that you may be unknowingly fueling the jokes about your provincial ways.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Lord Courtney?” Hetty asked, looking at him curiously.

  Lord Courtney turned away as though regretting he had said anything, and then turned back to her with an air of resolution. “I must tell you, even if it should prove distressing. Miss Biddle, it is generally known that Lord Wakeford has been entertaining the Beau and other frequenters of White’s with tales of your social blunders. It has made him quite popular wi
th Beau Brummell.”

  “I was already aware that Lord Wakeford was the one who gave me my sobriquet,” Hetty replied, outwardly calm. Inwardly she felt a cold anger overwhelm her as she listened to Lord Courtney. So that was why Lord Wakeford had been seeking out her company! It was not enough that he had given her the nickname; he kept it alive by regaling the other gentleman with stories of her social errors. It was despicable! Hetty looked down at her plate, fighting to bring her emotions under control.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Biddle, my words appear to have overset you,” Lord Courtney said in concerned tones as the color of Hetty’s cheeks fluctuated between the white of mortification and the red of anger.

  Hetty turned back to Lord Courtney, making an effort to smile. “I am not overset, Lord Courtney. I had already suspected something of the sort; you have only confirmed those suspicions. Please let us talk of more agreeable matters.”

  Hetty resolutely banished the perfidious Lord Wakeford from her mind and flirted shamelessly with Lord Courtney for the duration of the breakfast. One gentleman, at least, found her company pleasing for reasons other than selfish amusement.

  Jules prepared to collect Miss Biddle for their walk in Kensington Gardens with a feeling of pleasureable anticipation. He found he was actually beginning to enjoy the young woman’s company. It was as his sister had told him from the beginning—Miss Biddle was a charming, unaffected girl, very unlike the usual affected Society misses and very refreshing.

  But to his surprise, when he called for Miss Biddle she seemed a very different person from the charming girl at the breakfast. Her spirits appeared depressed and she responded to his greetings in an abstracted manner. Jules endeavored to raise her spirits by recounting amusing stories as he drove to the Gardens, but Miss Biddle responded absently, appearing more interested in passing traffic than his tales. Perhaps the beauty of the Gardens would dispel Miss Biddle’s odd mood, Jules thought. The flowers outside the Palace were exceptionally fine this year, and the atmosphere of the Gardens was always peaceful, for no riding was allowed.

  Jules left his vehicle with his groom and escorted Miss Biddle into the Gardens, certain her spirits would soon lighten. However, although she did exclaim at the beauty of the flowers, she appeared hardly aware of his presence.

  At last Jules gave up and escorted Miss Biddle directly back to the Hardwicks’ instead of stopping at his home that she might visit with his mother and sister as he had planned. As the Hardwicks’ door closed behind her, he shook his head in puzzlement. What could possibly have happened to change Miss Biddle’s behavior toward him so drastically since the previous afternoon?

  A few days later Hetty’s parcels began to arrive from the modiste’s, and Hetty’s spirits, which had been quite cast down over Lord Courtney’s revelations about Lord Wakeford, rose again in her excitement over her new gowns. She and Daisy unwrapped the parcels eagerly, and Hetty tried several of the gowns on, twirling before the glass. As she viewed her reflection, Hetty knew that she had been correct in her suspicions that her aunt had chosen clothes for her that were unflattering. These gowns enhanced her appearance.

  “Oh, miss! You look that beautiful,” Daisy breathed.

  Hetty smiled and thanked her maid for the compliment, immodestly agreeing with her assessment.

  As she looked at herself from all angles, admiring her reflection, Sophie entered the room.

  “Mama wishes to speak to you ̶ ,” she broke off suddenly. “Where did you get that gown, Hetty? That is not one Mama selected for you.”

  Hetty froze, then drew herself up. “I wished to have more gowns for the Season and had Madame Chennault assist me in choosing some additional styles,” she said defiantly.

  “Mama will not approve,” Sophie stated, walking over to the wardrobe and rummaging through the neatly folded gowns. She stopped when she reached the dark red gown and pulled it out.

  “I know the dark color is not appropriate for a young woman’s first Season,” Hetty said defensively, “but I liked the color and thought I would take it home where I might wear it during the winter.”

  “It would look very well with your dark hair,” Sophie agreed surprisingly. “And although it is true you should not wear such a dark colored gown at your come-out ball, it would be acceptable for you to wear this late in the Season. I think you should wear it to the ball tonight.”

  “Are you certain?” Hetty asked dubiously.

  “Yes, but perhaps it would be better if Mama did not see it before we get there since it is not one she chose for you. Cover it completely with your cloak before Mama sees you, and be late coming out for the carriage. And once we arrive at the Palmers’ you had best pretend to have some difficulty with your toilette and go to the retiring room. That way I can be certain Mama goes into the ballroom before she sees your gown, and she will not be able to send you home to change,”

  Sophie laid the gown back in the wardrobe. “For now you had best hurry and see what my mother wants of you,” she said, leaving the room.

  Despite her cousin’s encouragement to wear the dark red dress to the ball, Hetty still hesitated that evening. Sophie’s willingness to help her gave her pause, for it was quite out of character for her ocusin.

  “What do you think, Daisy?” she asked her maid. “Shall I wear the red gown or the new white one with blue ribbons?”

  “They both would make you look a treat, miss,” Daisy responded.

  “I think I shall wear the red gown,” Hetty said at last, thinking of Lord Courtney. She wished to look her best for the viscount and knew the red paduasoy suited her coloring exceptionally well. Even Lord Wakeford could not accuse her of appearing rustic in the rich red silk, Hetty thought, her desire to look well that evening overcoming the previous hesitation engendered by her cousin’s unusual helpfulness.

  As Daisy adjusted the folds of the skirts about her mistress, Hetty stood before the glass and knew the gown was everything she had hoped it would be. The rich red silk made her skin glow and her hair shine. Her garnets, which suited none of her other gowns, matched the deep red silk. Remembering Sophie’s caution, Hetty draped her new evening cloak carefully over the gown, and waited until the last moment before going down to the hall when the carriage was ready.

  “Where have you been, Henreitta?” Lady Hardwick demanded impatiently as they descended to the street. “We have been waiting for you these ten minutes.”

  “I am sorry, Aunt Henrietta,” Hetty said as she settled onto the carriage seat, careful to keep the folds of the cloak covering her gown. “Daisy had to remove a spot from one of my slippers.”

  In the entrance hall of the Palmers’ town house, Hetty followed her cousin’s advice and pretended to have trouble with her cloak, and as she pushed back the hood, she exclaimed that her hair was coming loose. At Lady Hardwick’s expected cluck of displeasure, Hetty urged her aunt and Sophie to go ahead to the ballroom, and Sophie seconded her, saying that Hetty could find a maid to help her repair her coiffure and join them later.

  As soon as Lady Hardwick and Sophie were out of sight, Hetty asked a footman the way to the retiring room and waited there until she felt sure the ball was under way and it was safe to join her aunt.

  Jules stood at the side of the ballroom with casual grace, speaking to Beau Brummell and watching the arriving guests. As he scanned each new arrival with he realized with surprise that he was watching for Miss Biddle. The chit seemed to be occupying his thoughts to a great extent, he mused. Just then Lady Hardwick and her daughter entered the room, but he did not see Miss Biddle with them. When Lord and Lady Palmer left their places by the door and began to mingle with the other guests and Hetty had still not arrived, Jules felt let down. Perhaps Miss Biddle was feeling indisposed and had not come.

  “Where is the Biddle heiress?” the Beau asked, his question mirroring Jules’s thoughts. “You have not regaled us with any amusing stories about her recently and I was rather hoping to be a spectator to a faux pas tonight.” T
he Beau flicked his jeweled snuff box open with his thumb and dipped his index finger into the powder with matchless grace.

  “Miss Biddle has not made many social gaffes lately,” Jules said, turning his attention from the doorway and answering the Beau. “ ‘Half-baked Hetty’ is no longer apropos.”

  Even as Jules finished speaking, there was a collective gasp among the guests, followed by a momentary hush. All eyes turned to the doorway and Jules turned curiously. There, framed in the gilt entrance, was Miss Biddle. She was scanning the guests, evidently searching for her aunt and cousin.

  “I do not think we need rename her quite yet,” the Beau said, smiling. “Look at her gown.”

  Jules felt sick dismay as he took in Miss Biddle’s attire. The red gown became her magnificently, and would have been most appropriate if she were not a young girl. Did she not know that girls making their come-outs did not wear red? Such a gown on a young woman made her appear fast. A surge of anger at Miss Biddle’s aunt for allowing her charge to wear such a gown surged through him, and Jules glared at Lady Hardwick. But one look at Miss Biddle’s aunt told him that she was as shocked as the rest of the company. His glance returned to Miss Biddle and Jules could see that her color was slowly mounting as she became aware she was the cynosure of all eyes.

  The Beau made a droll comment, but Jules did not reply. He was too concerned for Miss Biddle. Even her wealth would not protect her if she appeared too fast. He wondered if anyone would dare dance with her, and immediately decided to offer himself as a partner. He was well aware that as he was an intimate of the Beau, Society would follow his lead. If he danced with Miss Biddle, so would others. It might minimize the damage she had done her reputation by wearing the dress. He strode purposefully across the floor.

  “Lady Hardwick, good evening,” he said, addressing himself first to Miss Biddle’s angry-looking aunt. “I have come to ask if I might have the honor of partnering your niece for the boulanger.”