Chapter 9

Over the next few days, Margot tried her best to stick to Langley's advice. It was, she realised, a somewhat foreign concept to her. As the oldest child in a small vicarage, she had been used to worrying, practised in helping her mother around the cottage with only one servant, Mrs. Faircliffe, managing the pennies, cooking the meals, and teaching the younger two. The luxury of having a bevy full of servants to wait on her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner was a novelty. As well as having the liberty to decide how she would occupy her day. At least that was what Margot attempted to enjoy, until she realised Mrs. Bowley had other plans.

"You might be quite the oldest debutante I've ever seen." She tutted over the breakfast table at Margot. "But I daresay we may still have a merry time of it. And I for one am sick of those ghastly whites and creams. You will at least be able to dress in some pretty colours."

Margot opened her mouth to refuse, but then she remembered what Langley had said about having some fun. This idea was echoed in Mrs. Bowley's statement. Fun. As if it was an accusation, a temptation idea dangled before Margot that other girls and women got to enjoy, but she had frequently denied herself. Perhaps on this one occasion she could act with just one degree less stiff-backed responsibility and the world would not crumble beneath her.

"That would be most appealing," Margot said. She prayed her parents would understand, and if the bills mounted up the new duke would be sympathetic. After all, if she managed to locate the family diamonds, she would be giving them to him—that should sweeten the heir. "When is our trip to the modiste's to be?"

To this Mrs. Bowley set off in delighted raptures. There was a list of things they would need, and no expense should be spared. Briefly, Margot wondered if this was what Ashmore had always intended for her, after all, why else would he have hired Mrs. Bowley if he did not know that this was her intention?

"…and we need to go the hat makers, shoemaker, and we must get you some gloves…"

As long as paste jewels could be worn, Margot reasoned it would not be too bad.

"A proper lady's maid might be sensible." Mrs. Bowley had drawn closer, her eyes examining Margot most closely. "If your hair could be made to curl."

"It never does, in my experience."

To this, Mrs. Bowley gave a sly smile, and she lifted her cup of chocolate to her mouth, and Margot caught her whisper: "We'll see."

The modiste'swas one of the most beautifully decorated places that Margot had ever been to, so much so she felt out of place. The discreet black sign outside, with its cursive gold handwriting reading, ‘Madam Fletcherite', gave little real clue as to the wonders behind its doors. Certainly, it would have never fitted in in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The shop had high, doomed ceilings, with handsome opaque glass windows that let in soft spring light but gave no opportunity that the customers might be spied upon. The cerise wallpaper and matching plush carpet beneath the soles of their feet added to the overall feeling of opulence.

Dotted throughout the room, there were neat wooden chairs for clients to sit in, and a large stool for one lucky girl to be measured up on. Along the wall of the dressmakers were rack after rack filled with rolls of materials, from the buttery yellows to the most luxurious of velvets, with every shade imaginable. Finally, there was the most delicious of scents, the perfume of sugary vanilla, which gave the shop the flavour of a recently cooked cake.

Unable to help herself, Margot turned and smiled at Mrs. Bowley. She was still trying to get used to such situations, and she was grateful for the loop of Mrs. Bowley's arm through hers. Despite not having a great deal in common with her companion, it was a comfort to feel as if the older woman was there to ensure Margot's progress.

"Aaah, Mrs. Bowley," there came a delighted cry and in walked one of the most handsome women Margot could ever recall seeing. She was not young by any means, but there was such art to her polished face, such a well-placed curl, and a real smile, that it seemed as if this modiste had truly found her happiness. Turning sharp blue eyes on Margot, the modiste said, "And this must be the lovely Miss Keating you mentioned in your communication. I am Madam Celine Fletcherite." The modiste gestured Margot forward with such warmth that any awkwardness she might have felt melted away as she stepped onto the stand.

"I'm sure I am quite the oldest debutante," Margot began after a few seconds of Madam Fletcherite examining her, "and my dressmaker always said I was a beanpole?—"

"You are excellence personified." It was said with such authority that it entirely stopped Margot in her well-worn self-deprecating tracks. It made her stand up straighter and feel the sort of confidence she had never expected to feel swell through her chest. "Now—" Madam Fletcherite did another turn. "—I am quite excited to have a challenge out of the norm. We can go one of several ways… all of which will be sophisticated and bring out your most handsome features."

"The strength of her cheekbones," Mrs. Bowley said. "Her face is well made, is it not? Almost aristocratic in its bearings."

"Indeed, but I was thinking Miss Keating's handsome green eyes. Now there is just the loveliest of shawls I had delivered last week. I think it will work perfectly alongside any gown we pick. Lydia," she called to one of the younger women perched nearby and whispered a few words to the girl, who hurriedly scurried off to search.

Never could Margot remember ever being complimented so, or the likelihood of her parentage alluded to so strongly. In response to this, her face went red.

Madam Fletcherite gave her a knowing glance. "None of that. You must wear your knowledge and wisdom as a badge of pride, after all, is that not the best way?"

Lydia returned with what seemed to be a vast collection of shawls, which Mrs. Bowley started to pick her way through as Lydia took Margot's measurements.

"Now, my dear.," Mrs. Bowley stepped closer. "You will need to have at least six day dresses. Two pelisses or so. Then at least four dresses suitable for evening wear."

Margot's eyes moved over to the roll after roll of material. She could easily imagine herself returning with the most handsome of gowns, and the new heir of Ashmore's estate fairly telling her that the annuity the duke had promised her had been spent on trifles.

"Perhaps half of that, madam," she whispered. "I do not want to test my godfather's good will too far."

"I know quite how to manage him," Mrs. Bowley said with far too much faith, and Margot gave her an uneasy smile. She personally did not have the same skill: that of managing men. One, in particular, sprang to mind—the elusive earl next door, Lord Langley. She had not seen him in over three days, quite deliberately. But did it really count if she thought about him all the time, and kept sneaking out to the rear of the townhouse to see if she could catch a glimpse of him? So far, she had been unsuccessful, and she had not even had the distraction of a letter from her sister to provide a welcome relief from her curiosity.

While Margot had been frowning into the middle-distance, dwelling on that Adonis of her dreams and nightmares, she saw that Mrs. Bowley had been selecting out several different rolls of fabric. Madam Fletcherite held up the material and the two of them were conversing in rapid French that Margot could just about follow, although her conversational French had never been as good as Elsie's.

It was in that moment, as the two older women turned to her, that Margot gave in. She was done with the worrying, and the fretting, and she was simply going to take Langley's advice and enjoy the next few days' worth of silliness and fun.

After Madam Fletcherite had promised to deliver the first few of the gowns to Ashmore's within the week, they made their way through the crowds along Bond Street, and towards Mrs. Bowley's favourite hat maker.

When the door swung open, Mrs. Bowley bustled through and let out another cry of pleased recognition, although this time it was to a patron of the store. A matron in her early thirties, with a smiling face and a bright smile, from the lady's dress Margot strongly suspected that this woman was a widow.

"Allow me to present you to my new dear friend, Miss Margot Keating. This fine lady is Lady Briers."

Margot bobbed a curtsey in greeting to Lady Briers. There was an appealing sparkle to the woman's clever dark eyes as she surveyed Margot. "Are you new to Town?" Lady Briers asked.

"Indeed, this is my first time in London."

"Where do you hail from?"

"Close to Scotland, in a place called Berwick-upon-Tweed."

"Oh, how romantic," Lady Briers suddenly said. There was an almost dancing quality to her face now. "I simply love to read about Scotland, I am surprised we could lure you down south, when all I can imagine about the Scots…" She stopped and giggled in the manner of a schoolgirl. "Lud, never mind that. You must come to my brother's party this Saturday."

"If it is not an inconvenience to you or your brother," Margot replied, glancing across at Mrs. Bowley. It had not been their intention to collect invites, and suddenly she did wonder if Lady Briers's brother's home would be listed on the map. It seemed unlikely, but still, if she were to glide through society, she had better make a start.

"Not in the slightest," Lady Briers said. "Verne barely pays attention to whatever I do, and since I am a widow, I am quite in charge. Mrs. Bowley and you are most welcome."

With that, Lady Briers waved to the shopkeeper, gathered a small blonde girl who Margot suspected was the widow's daughter to her side, and the two of them departed.

"She is a charming woman," Margot murmured as Mrs. Bowley pulled her across to examine the most suitable of bonnets.

"Oh indeed. Lady Briers is quite society's darling, and widowed so young. Her brother is a well-connected member of the Oxford Set. Baron Edward Verne." She leant closer to Margot and whispered, "They even say he is a spy, but I cannot vouch for the veracity of that."

"Is he married?" Margot asked.

Mrs. Bowley shook her head. "No indeed, the baron is quite a confirmed bachelor, I'm afraid. A handsome man, although with a lineage of a French parent I believe…" She sighed as if this prejudice of hers was an understandable one, and then continued, "But he is an able dancer, and the party should be quite the suitable introduction for you to the ton. Lady Briers is an excellent hostess and there will be a fine array of guests. What good fortune we had in running into Lady Briers. Now, my dear, this straw one is a must, and I think the soft blue velvet would do very well."

"And to the ball?" Margot asked, for the first time feeling nervous. It was strange how that could be the case. After all, she had gone to Limehouse, and nerves had not entered her mind until she was firmly in the East End. She had interrupted an orgy, and not felt a moment's real hesitation. But to stand up amongst the quality and pretend to be a fine well born woman, when the truth was far more questionable than that, caused a rolling swell of nerves to gather in her belly. There were things that Margot was capable of doing, and then there were things far, far outside her abilities.

"Why, ribbons, of course," Mrs. Bowley said with the assurance of a woman who knew precisely what to do. "Once we get home, your maid and I will get started on your coiffure, you need not fear on that score."

Mrs. Bowley was as good as her word. Once the other shops had been visited, the two of them returned to Ashmore's townhouse, their treasures carried by a footman. All the while, Mrs. Bowley discussed polite society's rules. Her advice varied from snippets to pieces of gossip. At first Margot felt overwhelmed, but soon Mrs. Bowley reassured Margot that whilst the ton were sticklers for rules, it seemed entirely possible that if you knew enough of them, occasionally one or two might be broken.

"Your Lord Langley for instance." Mrs. Bowley gave a sad shake of her head. "Quite the reprobate, but he is excellent company. Admittedly he does not choose to attend many of the events I go to, since my focus is chiefly on the marriage mart, but Lord Langley and his ilk are always seen at the best parties and balls."

"I hardly think of him as mine," Margot said. They had paused briefly in the hallway, as Mrs. Bowley directed the staff to locate Jessop, the newly hired lady's maid.

"Of course not. I tease, but mind you don't get any silly ideas. A good few years ago, one of my charges, a Miss… Miss Chandler, that was it, decided she was quite in love with him. Wrote the most dreadful poems and insisted they be printed. Placed them out amongst a private ball. Anonymously, thankfully, but still her poor parents knew… It was quite a stir, and we had to take Miss Chandler away to Harrogate for the rest of the Season."

A small flush crept up and over Margot's cheeks. She was recalling all too clearly that moment in Limehouse, when Langley had held Margot in his arms, when her mask had slipped from her face and landed between them, and then he had looked at her with such intensity she thought he might kiss her. Worse, she had hoped he would. The tension had been exquisite and entirely new to Margot, a blend of heavy beating heart palpitations, a wild tightening in the air around them, and a pull that Margot had never experienced before. Yes, she had been tempted. If it had lasted longer, would she have dared to ask Langley to please kiss her? Would she be that desperate? Presumably poor Miss Chandler had not done anything that shocking, no matter how bad her poetry was.

On Jessop's sudden arrival to the hallway, all three departed for Margot's chamber. There were fashion catalogues and drawings spread out, and Margot, who had always assumed her thick brown hair was only that, came to realise that under someone with Jessop's skill, her appearance could be transformed. Sat at the table, Margot saw her face was lifted and changed when there was a wave introduced, or a ribbon woven through it. She was touched to see that she was quite handsome when Jessop finally stepped back.

Mrs. Bowley squeezed Margot's shoulder, and said the final chignon with a few white flowers sewn into her hair would be the perfect look for the ball on Saturday. With that agreed, both Mrs. Bowley and Jessop departed, leaving Margot with a strange feeling of excitement buzzing through her stomach.

When Saturday night arrived, Jessop helped Margot into her freshly delivered evening gown, her hair dressed and her only piece of jewellery a pearl cross hung between the slight curve of her breasts. She clutched the white fan between her gloved fingers and knew she wanted to enjoy this evening.

One glance at the map had told Margot that the Verne household was not pinpointed. Ashmore had not hidden anything in the baron's townhouse. But there was a hiding spot just three doors down. Margot doubted she would have an opportunity to sneak away, but hopefully Lady Briers had invited their neighbours, so Margot might gain an introduction and then from there a chance to reach the neighbour's home.

With that plan in place, Margot left her bedroom and she and Mrs. Bowley departed the Ashmore residence, stepping into the carriage, to be driven the ten minutes across to the Verne abode. It did strike Margot as a little silly to use a carriage for such a short journey—certainly, never in Berwick-upon-Tweed would that be ordered or hired. But things were different here. This was an entirely singular world, and the sooner Margot grasped that the better.

On entering the Verne household, decked out in all its finery, Margot sucked in her breath. It was beautiful. The magnificent ballroom was festooned with flowers whose scent filled the room, rich and heavy. Clearly the white blooms and delicate roses showed how romantic Lady Briers was. There were long, tall cream candles whose yellow light caused the room to glitter. Guests in the most stunning dresses and black evening wear presented such an image to Margot's eyes, she knew that no matter what she wrote to either her parents or Elsie, it would never quite convey the magic of the scene before her.

When Margot turned around, eager to see more of the handsome room, the guests were lining up to make their greetings to Lady Briers and her brother, so hastily Margot followed suit. As she did so, there was a loud start of surprise from her, which Margot hoped no one else heard. Across the ballroom, engaged in what seemed to be an intense and flirtatious conversation, was Lord Langley.