The Dreadful Debutante (2 page)

They stayed two nights at posting houses on the road, finally entering the outskirts of London in the morning. Drusilla shrank back against the squabs. London was so large, so noisy, and so very grimy, it was not what she had expected at all. But Mira sat forward in her seat, her green eyes shining. Charles was in London, and so everything about London was beautiful—from the billboards advertising Warren’s blacking to the multitude of shops at the East End of the city, which had not yet been glassed in like the more fashionable ones of the West End but had their many-colored wares spilling out into the streets.

But Drusilla began to brighten as the quieter streets and squares of the West End were reached. She peered from the window of the carriage, studying the dress of the ladies and commenting on the height of cravats worn by the dandies.

Mira expected that Charles would call almost as soon as they were settled in, but when he did not, she contented herself by believing he would call the following day.

But a week of calls on various ladies went by, a stultifying week to Mira of boring conversation at boring tea tables, and still he did not call. Another week passed and then another, and Mira began to feel desperate. The rigid modes and manners of London society were becoming terrifying to her, and the more she thought of attending her first ball, the more clumsy and gauche she became. She even began to regret that her mentor, Mrs. Dunstable, had not come to London with them.

And then two days before their first ball, Mira heard her father remark that he had met Lord Charles at the club the preceding afternoon.

“But why hasn’t he called?” she cried.

Her father rustled his paper impatiently. “Lord Charles has many friends and acquaintances in London. He has been too busy. You will see him at your first ball. He is to attend.”

“Where is he residing?” asked Drusilla.

“He has lodgings in South Audley Street next to the Welsh bakery,” said Mr. Markham.

All that long day Mira worried and worried. If only she could see Charles, if only she could reassure herself that he still cared for her. And then she remembered her masculine clothes, which she had brought from the country and hidden in the back of the press in her room. Her heart beat with excitement. She could slip out the following morning before anyone was awake and go and see him. How he would laugh!

She bareley slept that night. Surely Charles would not be so silly as to keep fashionable hours and not rise until two in the afternoon.

At nine in the morning she slipped out of the house in her breeches and coat with a hat jammed down over her hair. She began to swagger, enjoying the old freedom of pretending to be a boy.

But when she reached the corner of South Audley Street, her steps began to falter. Everything was so quiet, not a fashionable to be seen. But surely it would be all right when she saw Charles again. She found the bakery, went to the house next door to it, and faced a row of doorbells that looked like organ stops. Which one was Charles’s? She retreated to the bakery, which was fortunately open, and said boldly, “Delivery for Lord Charles Devere. Which is his apartment?”

“Number three,” said the baker laconically, and went back to picking his teeth.

Mira went back, drew a deep breath, and pulled the bell marked with a brass three. Somewhere deep in the silent building, a bell jangled noisly on its wire. She waited and waited and then heard the sound of advancing footsteps.

The door was opened by a servant in black coat, knee breeches, and striped waistcoat.

“What is it, lad?” he demanded.

“I am called to see Lord Charles,” said Mira haughtily.

“Be off with you.”

“Tell Lord Charles that Miss Mira Markham is called to see him.”

The servant’s eyes widened slightly, and then his gaze raked up and down her clothes. His eyes returned slowly to her face. Mira stared him down.

“Follow me, miss,” he said curtly.

He led the way to the first floor, opened a door that led into a hallway, and said, “Be so good as to wait there.”

Mira took off her hat and twisted the brim round in her fingers. The flat was dark and silent, with only faint noises of traffic from the street below filtering up through the gloom.

She heard the low murmur of voices from a room, and then the servant reappeared. Again he said, “Follow me” and this time led her into a masculine-looking study. “His lordship will be with you presently,” he said.

Mira sat down nervously and looked about her. There was a businesslike desk against the window and several shiny black leather and horsehair-filled chairs like the one on which she was perched. There was a large oil painting on the wall depicting a hunting scene and several smaller oils of horses. A stand in the corner held an assortment of whips, sticks, and riding crops. Stuck into the gold frame of the mirror over the fireplace were many invitations.

There was a console table at her elbow with copies of
The Sporting Life
and
The Gentleman’s Magazine.
She flicked open
The Gentleman’s Magazine
and tried to find something to read.

There was an article called “Observations on Hunting by the Late King of Prussia,” which seemed very boring even to an enthusiastic hunter like herself. She settled down to read a chilling article titled “Calculations on the Game of Life and Death.”

The article claimed that half of all people born in the British Isles died before they reached the age of seventeen. More girls than boys died of the smallpox, it went on, and just as Mira had reached the bit where it explained cheerfully that most deaths could be expected to take place in March, the door opened and Lord Charles strode in. He was unshaven and wrapped in an oriental dressing gown, and his black hair was ruffled.

Mira threw down the magazine and jumped to her feet with a glad cry of welcome, a cry that died on her lips when she saw the look of horror on his face.

“What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Charles. “And dressed like a guy?”

“But… but I wanted to see you,” said Mira. “And you were used to seeing me in boys’ clothes.”

His blue eyes stared down at her. “That was when you were a child. Unless I am much mistaken, you are in London for your come-out.”

“Yes, but… but…”

“Then this is no way to go on.”

“But we are friends,” wailed Mira, “and London is so strange and, in fact, quite terrifying. I thought perhaps we might have some fun. I have not been to the Tower.”

“I think you should concentrate on getting your manners ready for your come-out,” said Charles, “instead of hankering after unfashionable places.”

She looked uneasily at his handsome, regular features. “You are changed, Charles.”

His manner softened. “You are a shameless scapegrace, Mira. Off with you before your parents find out what you have been up to.” He ruffled her frizzy hair. “I shall see you at your very first ball. It is at the Henrys’, is it not?”

Mira dumbly nodded. Charles picked up a small brass bell and rang it, and when his servant answered its summons, he said, “Show Miss Mira out, James, and forget you ever saw her here.”

Mira got up and followed the servant to the door. On the threshold she turned around, “Charles…” she began. But he said impatiently, “Go, and go quickly before you are seen.”

Outside she stood on the pavement, irresolute. A newspaper blew along the street and wrapped itself around her legs. She tore it away and then with her hands in her pockets slowly began to make her way home.

When she reached home, she was lucky in that there were no servants in the hall, so she was able to scamper up the stairs to her room, unobserved. She threw herself facedown on the bed, but she did not cry. Her mind searched desperately for an explanation for her beloved Charles’s cold behavior. And then she realized with shame that this was, after all, London, and it had been very shocking indeed to call on him at his home and dressed in such a way. Her childhood was behind her, never to return.

The eve of the ball rushed on her in a last-minute flurry of dancing instructions and dress rehearsals. She could not help but become excited. Mira had never paid much attention to dress before, but now she was glad that her ball gown was so pretty. It was of white muslin, the finest India muslin, worn over a white silk underdress. There were so many intricate flounces at the hem that it seemed to foam about her feet when she walked.

Finally they were ready to set out, and Mira was so caught up at the idea of Charles seeing her in her finery that she did not notice that Drusilla was looking exceptionally beautiful. Although the Markhams lived in a fairly grand style in the country, Mira was startled at the magnificence of Lord and Lady Henry’s mansion in Grosvenor Square, where the ball was being held. Lights blazed from top to bottom of the house. As they entered the wide hallway with its black-and-white tiles, she saw that the very hall was decorated with hangings of silk and banks of hothouse flowers. A double line of footmen in livery lined the wide staircase that led up to the chain of saloons on the first floor, which had been turned into a ballroom for the evening.

They left their cloaks and joined Mr. Markham at the foot of the stairs. As they began to mount, Mira tried not to be afraid. Charles would be there. He would smile at her and dance with her, and after that everything would be all right.

She and Drusilla curtsied to Lord and Lady Henry and then followed their mother and father into the ballroom. Their entrance excited a certain commotion, and Mira realized that quizzing glasses were being trained on her sister’s beauty. But what did it matter what the gentlemen thought of her sister? Charles had always rated her a tiresome little girl.

After Mr. and Mrs. Markham had circled the floor, chatting to friends and acquaintances, Mr. Markham went off to the card room, and Mrs. Markham and her daughters sat down on gilt rout chairs at the edge of the floor, where dancers were performing the quadrille.

Just as that dance ended, Mira saw Charles entering the ballroom, and her heart turned over. He looked so handsome in formal black. Surely there was no man in London who looked better.

And he saw her, sitting there with her mother and Drusilla, and he smiled and began to make his way toward them.

Mira’s green eyes shone as she watched him approach. All her social unease, all her uncertainties melted away. She knew herself to be a good dancer, better than Drusilla.

And then just as Charles was nearly at their side, his eyes fell on Drusilla, who smiled at him, a little curved smile. She lowered her long lashes and slowly waved her fan.

Charles bowed, and the ladies rose and curtsied. Charles had forgotten Mira’s very existence. His blue eyes were fastened on Drusilla’s face. “Can this be little Drusilla?” he asked.

“My daughter has grown in looks,” said Mrs. Markham.

Charles appeared to collect his wits. He bowed again in front of Drusilla. “Miss Markham,” he said, “would you do me the very great honor of partnering me in this next dance?”

With one single graceful movement, Drusilla, lifted her train over her arm, and put her gloved fingers on the arm Charles was holding out.

“Delighted,” she murmured.

They moved off together, and Mira sat down again suddenly, her mind one black pit of misery. What did fun and companionship matter when one did not possess beauty?

A young man came up to Mira and asked her to dance. She accepted, but all the time her eyes followed Charles and Drusilla, so that by the end of the dance, she could neither remember the name of the man she had danced with nor remember what he looked like. Misery made her look grim-faced, and so she was to have very few partners that evening. Charles showed no sign of wanting to dance with her. He danced twice with Drusilla and then spent quite a lot of time leaning against a pillar and watching her.

When they all went in for refreshments, Mira walked beside her mother, a great anger against her sister rising in her tortured bosom.

In the center of the room that was being used for refreshments, there was a fountain surrounded by a wide, shallow pool in which goldfish darted. Drusilla was standing there with a young man, laughing and flirting.

A friend of Mrs. Markham’s called to her, and so with her mother’s attention elsewhere, Mira marched straight up to her sister and said belligerently, “I want a word with you.”

The young man bowed and retreated. “What is it, sis?” asked Drusilla languidly.

“I want you to leave Charles alone,” said Mira. “You can have any gentleman you like. Leave Charles for me.”

“You silly widgeon,” said Drusilla. “Lord Charles is not in the slightest interested in you. He has asked Mama’s permission to take me out driving, and I am going. So there!”

Never had Mira known such sick jealousy. The room seemed to swim about her and her hands to move of their own volition as she suddenly pushed her sister backward, so that Drusilla, with a loud shriek, fell into the pool.

Mira stood stricken, wondering whether she had run mad. Voices all about her were crying, “Shame!” Gentlemen were helping a now weeping Drusilla from the pool. Her soaking dress was clinging to her body, serving to make Drusilla appear even more entrancing in the eyes of the gentlemen.