Chapter 18 - Litchfield House, St. James Square

"You said what?" Helena asked, incredulous.

Cassandra helped herself to a slice of toast and reached for the pot of marmalade. She had just returned from her morning ride and, fair skin aglow from the exertion and eyes alight, looked remarkably pretty. "Well," she said placidly, "it isn't as though you mean to marry Lord Percy. Which, let me just say, is a terrible shame. He is the very sort of elder brother I should have liked to have, given the chance. He's not the least bit stuffy or dull and is very attentive. He's also a very fine rider — did you know? — not showy at all but very much at his ease in the saddle. And his horse…!"

"Cass," Penny interrupted, in a dampening tone. "Your tea is getting cold."

Cassandra opened her mouth on a retort, but then, thinking better of it, gave a careless shrug and applied herself to her breakfast.

Had she been so inclined, Helena might have reminded Cassie that her choosing to marry or not depended on the gentleman's having, first, made her an offer and this, it was becoming increasingly clear, Lord Percy was disinclined to do. That he admired her and was as drawn to her as she to him she was past doubting; the previous day had afforded her proof. During the whole of the afternoon, he had strayed from her side only twice: the first time, when he'd been called away to visit the stables and the second, on his return, when he'd stopped to chat with Georgie and Charlotte. Helena had kept a surreptitious watch on that conversation and had seen nothing of the lover in Lord Percy's manner toward Georgie. Indeed, he had focused his attention on Charlotte and taken pains to draw the bashful girl out. When, in the end, his efforts had been rewarded by a shy smile, Helena's heart had melted a little bit more. Georgie had beamed at him, but the look was one of gratitude and friendship, nothing more. There was no hint of complicity or understanding between them. In that moment, as if the scales had fallen from her eyes, Helena had glimpsed the truth: that, while there was every appearance of Lord Percy courting her cousin, there was in fact no substance to it. The "courtship" was an illusion.

That same evening, anxious for her sister's perspective, Helena had confided her epiphany to Penny. They had dismissed their maid with assurances that Miss Penny would see to brushing out Miss Helena's hair, and the brush was no sooner stroking its way through her long golden locks than Helena began, "I have come round to your way of thinking, Penn, about Lord Percy and Georgina. He's not really courting her. It's all for show."

Penny glanced up from her task and, meeting Helena's eyes briefly in the mirror, nodded. "I have not had your chances of seeing them together, but from what I observed today — and I confess to having studied them — I saw no sign of attachment on either side. Plus, what with Lord Percy showing a decided preference for your company, I should have expected Georgie to be somewhat annoyed but she appeared not to mind at all."

Helena had not remarked this at time, but thinking back realized it was true. "Does that mean she is in on the farce, do you think? She's not being misled?"

"I'd say it's all but certain."

"That begs the question, then, of why. Why engage in such a charade?"

Penny frowned thoughtfully as she dragged the brush once and then again through Helena's hair. "You've mentioned Lord Percy's willingness to dance with girls who would otherwise lack a partner…"

"Yes, but Georgie's not a wallflower. She hardly ever sits out a dance."

Penny mulled this over, the rhythm of her strokes unvarying. "And has that always been the case? What I mean to say is, have gentlemen taken more notice of her since Lord Percy began playing her suitor?"

Helena, having never considered matters from this angle, was obliged to think long and hard. It was true that, early in the Season, Georgie's invitations to dance had come primarily from relations like Will, family friends like Walter Flavell, or gentlemen who, having found Helena's dance card full, had turned their attention to Georgie. She remembered, too, that, rather than stand awkwardly on the sidelines, Georgie had sometimes strolled around the dance floor arm-in-arm with one of her old chums from Miss Goddard's School. Latterly, however, she had accrued her own, albeit small, court of admirers, and was never short a partner. When had she grown more popular, and had the change been sudden or gradual? "She's considerably more sought-after now than she was at the start, and, now you raise the question, I think there was a definite turning point. I remember calling in Cavendish Square the morning after her coming-out ball and being struck with how much more confident and assured Georgie seemed."

"And it was at that ball that Lord Percy first began to single Georgie out." Penny, still plying the brush, gave a satisfied nod. "I see it now."

"That is more that I do!" Helena said.

The brush caught in a snarl and while Penny worked it out, she said, "Do you remember when we were little and Cass was such a nuisance, always wanting the toys we were playing with? The dolls, tea sets or what-have-you might have been sitting on the shelf, neglected, but the moment we took them down, Cass had to have them. The toys' appeal was in direct proportion to our appearing to value them. The principle's the same here. Lord Percy is a notable and highly-regarded member of the ton, and his repeatedly seeking Georgie out could not help but be remarked upon and pique other men's interest."

"The object, then, was to increase Georgie's cachet?"

"At a guess. And it's telling, I think, that they didn't enact their charade today. That suggests that their target audience — eligible gentlemen — were not in attendance." Her hand of a sudden paused in mid-stoke. "I wonder…"

"What?" Helena prompted as Penny remained thoughtful.

"Oh! Only whether the intended audience might not be a group at all but a particular individual."

Helena was far less interested in this question than in what had motivated Lord Percy to come to Georgie's aid. When asked what he possibly stood to gain, Penny shrugged. "There'll be some benefit in it for him, no doubt, but I haven't the least notion what. Unless…" She set the brush on the vanity, and, dividing Helena's locks into three equal sections, began fashioning a braid. "It might be simple kindness on his part. He saw a chance to be of help, and, as it was within his power, he acted. Is that likely, do you think?"

Helena considered Lord Percy's character — his openness toward others, his ready sympathy, his generous friendship — and allowed that it was, indeed.

While Helena found consolation in knowing Lord Percy was not seriously courting Georgie, the fact remained he did not mean to offer for her, either. And time to soften his resolve was running short. The invitation Lord Hartshorne had instructed Helena to expect from his mother had duly arrived, and she and her mother were to present themselves in St. James Square in a matter of days. Helena's stomach tied itself up in knots just anticipating the visit, and her mother, never one overawed by rank, showed subtle signs of nerves as well.

In a effort to prepare herself, Helena took advantage of Callie's having called to ask her friend what she knew of her Grace of Litchfield. Callie began with a disclaimer. "I do not know her personally, for, as you'll have noticed, she doesn't go about much in society. We — the lesser nobility — are, by and large, beneath her notice. She moves in far more exalted circles — she's an habituée of the palace and frequents and receives only those few great families she regards as equal to her own. She has a very high opinion of her worth, which, given she was raised a duke's daughter before becoming a duke's wife, is perhaps only natural. Rumor has it she's extremely demanding: holds her servants to impossible standards, finds fault with all the goods and service she receives, required, when they were still at home, perfect deportment from her daughters — who number four, by the way. Hartshorne is the only son, and, by all accounts, the apple of her eye. He can do no wrong, apparently, apart from not yet siring an heir." Callie paused, her gaze turned inward, but then, finding nothing to add to this portrait, said in summation, "Her Grace will likely treat you and Lady Damerel with chilly condescension, but…" — And here, she reached out a hand and, taking one of Helena's, gave it a bracing squeeze. "Don't you be cowed! Just remember: for all her pretensions, she's no grander than you and your mother. Keep your chin up and head high."

Callie's information, far from having the desired effect of easing Helena's anxiety, sharpened its edge. The interview loomed ever larger in her mind as a trial by fire, an ordeal. There was, in the alleged difficulty of pleasing Her Grace, some small comfort in that she might fail to meet her exacting requirements and Hartshorne, in consequence, urged to drop his suit. The old temptation to engage in active self-sabotage presented itself anew and Helena might just have stooped to it had she been set to face the dragon alone. With her mother present, though, it was out of the question. She could not embarrass or disappoint the woman who took such innocent pride in her. If not to herself, she owed it to her parents, to their faith in her, to be a credit to the Damerels, and so she resolved to be, whatever the cost to herself.

On the designated day, Helena could barely conceal her jitters. A last look in her mirror reassured her that her appearance, at least, was faultless. Her gown was new and exquisite, its fit impeccable, the pleats on the sleeves, neckline and hem cunningly worked so as to make the most of the richly-embroidered silk. Its pale gold color was flattering, too, and so cheerful, it boosted her spirits. Her mother, who typically inclined toward understated elegance, had also dressed with unusual care and looked exceptionally fine in a floral print gown edged at the throat and wrists with falls of lace. Fellowes, the butler, on bowing them out, begged leave to say that milady and miss presented as pretty a picture as he had ever seen.

Fellowes' counterpart in St. James Square allowed himself no such liberties, and only unbent insofar as to confirm that they were expected and should follow him. The entry hall, illuminated from far above by a domed glass ceiling, was a largely empty space, its furnishings consisting only of two tall porcelain vases, a small table against one wall and a gilded mirror hanging above it. Their steps echoed as they crossed the black-and-white marble floor toward and then up the gracefully-curving staircase past portraits of unsmiling Litchfield ancestors.

The first floor was, by contrast, as opulent in its decoration as the entry hall was bare. A plush red carpet ran the length of the corridor and, at intervals, against both walls, demi-lune tables stood as pedestals to great sprays of fresh flowers or, alternately, bronze statuettes or marble busts. Large-scale paintings depicting battles both ancient and modern lined the walls, and, on the ceiling, brilliantly-colored figures from classical mythology disported themselves among plasterwork wreaths and rosettes. There was so much to draw the eye that Helena felt she was seeing but a fraction and none of it well, but then the butler was stopping at a doorway and ushering them into the room beyond whereupon he announced in ringing tones, "Lady Damerel and Miss Damerel, your Grace."

The room was grand and richly-appointed, with jewel-toned Persian carpets on the floor, heavy damask curtains at the windows, no fewer than three distinct seating areas, and a quantity of precious bric-a-brac adorning every available surface. A white marble chimney dominated one wall, its mantle serving to showcase a collection of gilded vases and Meissen figurines with, holding pride of place in the center, a large ormolu clock. By contrast with the corridor, the paintings above the fireplace and on the walls to either side were portraits and of fairly recent date, to judge by the sitters' garments. The largest of the three showed four young girls against a woodland backdrop, the eldest looking out boldly from the canvas, her junior eying her admiringly, the next youngest absorbed in a kitten and her baby sister — for sisters they must be — reaching a pudgy hand to pet the animal. The man and woman, individually portrayed, were likely the parents of this winsome quartet, and, very possibly, youthful versions of the current duke and duchess.

The room's occupants were three, two of whom rose in response to their curtsies while the third, a frail, white-haired woman who smiled at them kindly, remained in her chair by the hearth. The older of the women standing was also elderly, but of so stately a posture and so gorgeously-dressed and bejeweled, she could only be the duchess. If she had, indeed, been the sitter for the female portrait, not much remained of her fresh, youthful beauty. She was pale, with features grown sharp with age and deep creases bracketing a thin, downturned mouth. She greeted them with a civil, "Lady Damerel, Miss Damerel, we're very pleased that you could join us. We've been most anxious to make your acquaintance. Please." She beckoned them to a settee, and, as they moved forward, she gestured to the woman by her side. "May I first present my daughter, Baroness von Stollenbach. Her husband, the German ambassador, is here on a diplomatic mission and so we have the pleasure of her company this week."

The baroness, a tall, attractive woman of middle years, was rather warmer in her welcome, holding a hand out to each of them and declaring herself delighted. She held Helena's hand in hers somewhat longer than needful and regarded her with such naked interest, Helena felt like some sort of a natural oddity, a rara avis to be studied. She dropped her gaze, and, in anticipation of the remaining introduction, turned toward the seated woman. The duchess, following her motion, seemed only in that moment to recall the old lady and said off-handedly, "And this is the dowager duchess of Rockland, my mother."

The dowager, much shrunken with age, did not acknowledge their curtsies with either word or nod, but only continued to smile at them in a benign, almost childlike manner. Her expression was sweet and so lacking in guile that Helena found herself, irresistibly, smiling back.

"You'll take some refreshment?" the duchess inquired, resuming her seat and signaling thereby that the others might take theirs. For her part, Helena sank onto the very edge of the settee across from her hostess, her mother a comforting presence by her side. To the butler awaiting her pleasure, the duchess said, "Tea, Benson."

He bowed. "At once, your Grace."

"I trust you will find the tea to your liking. I, myself, am very particular and have a blend of my own devising made to my exact specifications by Messrs. Harley and Sons in the Strand. You know the establishment, perhaps?" On her mother's admitting she did not, the duchess continued, "For quality and variety, their stock is unmatched in London, and their service is very satisfactory. You might consider giving them your custom."

Her mother inclined her head. "Thank you for the recommendation, your Grace."

The duchess laced long, bony fingers in her lap, gemstones glinting in the light. "I understand, Lady Damerel, that you are blessed with a large family. Five daughters, is it? And one son?"

"That is correct, your Grace. Helena is our eldest child and Jason, our youngest."

"Ah! We have that in common, then. Hartshorne is the last of my children as well, born after four daughters in my case. I am somewhat familiar with your husband's family, Lady Damerel. His parents — very fine, upstanding people — were on friendly terms with mine, and, more recently, I was acquainted with his aunt Storborough." The duchess gave a deprecatory shake of the head. "One should not speak ill of the dead, but she was, in truth, the most tiresome woman! Set herself up as a political and literary hostess after Storborough died and fancied herself a second Madame de Staël." The height of Lady Storborough's presumption still annoyed the duchess to such a degree it was a moment before she continued, "I trust you'll forgive a little plain-speaking."

Her mother's smile was stiff. "I knew Lady Agatha only as a most devoted aunt to her nephews."

"Quite," the duchess allowed. "Your family, now, Lady Damerel… I must admit to almost total ignorance. Your father was a baronet, I believe?"

"Yes, Sir Francis Lanyon. He did not often come to Town. He much preferred the country. My mother," she went on, anticipating the question, "was a Chiltoe, her father a much-decorated general."

"A military family." The duchess nodded in approval. "And were you, like your husband, an only child?"

"No, I've the good fortune to have two brothers: one, the current baronet, and the other, a Cambridge don."

"Two brothers," the duchess repeated, with evident satisfaction. "Very good."

At this juncture, Benson reappeared carrying a massive silver tea service which, to judge from the forward stoop of his shoulders, must have been exceedingly heavy. He set the tray down gingerly on the low table before the duchess, and, stepping back, made way for a pair of maids, one bearing a tray of spoons and porcelain cups and the other, a platter of dainty cakes. With her mother busy measuring out the leaves and setting them to steep, the baroness saw her chance to speak, and, taking swift advantage, said, "This is your first Season, is it not, Miss Damerel? The question which routinely springs to mind is whether you are enjoying yourself but in your case there can surely be no question. From all I have heard, you are this year's most sought-after debutante, much admired for your loveliness and grace. I must admit I did not half credit the reports of your beauty but they were not in the least exaggerated. Ah!" she exclaimed, breaking into a delighted smile. "I have made you blush! Never mind! You are all the prettier for it."

"Pretty," echoed a creaky voice. It was the ancient dowager, head bobbing, her bright eyes fixed on Helena.

The duchess called them back to order with a terse "Strong tea or weak, Lady Damerel?" As she preceded to pour out the cup, she resumed conversationally, "You were educated at home, Miss Damerel?"

The interrogation having finally begun, Helena felt herself on firmer ground. "Yes, your Grace. I had the benefit of an excellent governess."

"Milk, Lady Damerel? Sugar?" She flavored the tea as requested, pursuing all the while, "And what of finishing school? Did you do a course abroad?"

"I did not, your Grace."

"A pity." The duchess consigned the cup of tea to Benson who carried it to her mother. "It's an invaluable experience for young ladies of quality. My own daughters were all educated at the Institute Lapierre in Switzerland and found it exceedingly worthwhile. Is that not so, Caroline?"

"Oh, yes, decidedly."

The duchess emitted a small sigh. "Well, there is no help for it now, I suppose. Your other daughters, Lady Damerel — strong or weak, Miss Damerel? — you must absolutely see to their being afforded this last refining touch. You may trust me when I say it is all but indispensable."

These words acted on Helena like a goad and she was briefly possessed of the mad impulse to play the unpolished chit the duchess appeared to think her. In the end, though, her training prevailed and she held her tea cup in the prescribed two-fingered grip, gave its contents only the tiniest of stirs, and drank the brew down in small, decorous sips. She was conscious of the duchess' sparing her the odd assessing glance even as she continued to pour and pose questions, and Helena took pride in denying her grounds to find fault.

What remained of the interview soon fell into a predictable pattern. When, in answer to a question regarding her musical accomplishments, Helena replied that she played the piano, the duchess admitted to a fondness for the instrument, especially as her second daughter, Henrietta, was a virtuoso of such exceptional skill that her teacher — himself one of Europe's foremost pianists — regretted she could not play professionally. When the baroness complimented Helena on her gown and asked the name of her dressmaker, her mother allowed that it was a well-fashioned garment but not as fine in its details as her own modiste's creations. Helena's native fluency in French and knowledge of classical Greek and Latin were applauded one moment and in the next compared, unfavorably, with her youngest daughter's mastery of no fewer than five modern languages. And so it went: whatever talents or attainments Helena might advance, the duchess always cited someone in her family or among its dependents who outshone her.

It came, then, as a great surprise that, on parting, the duchess said, "We shall meet again soon, I expect."

Her mother, brought up no less short than Helena, inquired mildly, "Indeed, your Grace?"

The duchess inclined her head. "I've been given to understand you will shortly be invited to a soirée at the palace. Her Majesty has expressed the greatest interest in renewing your acquaintance, Miss Damerel. She's been delighted by reports of your success and, particularly, with your outstanding marital prospects which she clearly recalls having predicted when you were presented. She takes enormous pleasure in being proved right."

In the carriage on their return to Grosvenor Square, Helena found she could not speak. Her mother clasped her limp hand in support and tried to rally her with remarks on the baroness' amiability and the dowager's kindly if vague disposition. Of the duchess, she said not a word, but that very silence was eloquent of dislike and disapproval. And that awful woman was to become her mother-in-law? Was she to be subjected to a lifetime of the woman's condescension, to being belittled and made to feel inferior, second-rate? The prospect was insupportable.

And yet, was the choice still hers to make? In addition to all else, there were now Her Majesty's expectations to consider. Her Royal Highness favored her marriage to Hartshorne, saw in it the vindication of her shrewdness and foresight. Were she to decline the match now, she risked not only disappointing but potentially offending the Queen.

She had backed herself into a corner and saw no way out. Her fate, it appeared, was sealed.