Page 29 of A Lady's Wager
Women of a Certain Age
COLLETTA MARKSHIRE HAD BEEN INVITEDto the first Queen Charlotte’s Ball in 1780, never imagining that eight years later, an entire social season would have sprung up around the event. As a year-round resident of London and former attendant to the queen, Etta had positioned herself to be an excellent player in this new opportunity becoming known as “the Season.” Tonight, therefore, she surveyed the room with the confidence of an expert perfectly comfortable in this arena.
That the prey was not for herself made the hunt even more satisfying.
The twelve debutantes who Etta nominated in previous years had made their matches and were as secure and happy as anyone could expect a married woman to be. Rachel—Etta’s lucky number thirteen charge—was on her way to finding an equally good situation. Rachel had been presented to the queen weeks ago at the Queen Charlotte’s Ball of 1788, thereby gaining entry to the most exclusive entertainments in London, such as this ball tonight at the London home of the Duke of Brenton.
As part of her duties to help Rachel find her place in the world, Etta had been tracking her top husband choices amid theglamorous crowd in the ballroom and gauging their interest in the other young women as well as their attention to Rachel.
Wilfred Carrington? He would be a viscount one day, so long as his uncle did not marry again and produce his own heir. The Carrington’s primary estate was within a day’s journey of London, and though he was rather short, he had a similar demeanor to Rachel—quiet, introspective, a bit boring. Rachel could be happy with him.
Edward Longshore was a viable candidate, thanks to his merchant fortune and current clerkship for a member of Parliament, but he was thirty-four years old—exactly twice Rachel’s age. An older husband was, of course, optimal for matters of security, but Rachel had a sizable dowry and did not need to marry for money alone. He was ambitious, paid Rachel a great deal of attention, and she did not seem put off by his age or expanding waistline. He was a bit of a flirt, but that did not seem to bother Rachel either.
Jonathan Rigby III was Etta’s favorite, however. He had no title coming his way but was connected to several of the most influential families in England. His father was a heralded general currently watching France closely, and Mr. Rigby’s grandfather on his mother’s side was a marquess. The young man made a point of engaging Etta in conversation at each event where they crossed paths, and while she knew his attention was to earn her good favor, Mr. Rigby’s understanding of the game impressed her. He was also the right height, had good teeth, and had just purchased a fine piece of horseflesh at Tattersalls. Rachel adored horses.
Yes, Jonathan Rigby III was top of Etta’s list so far, yet it was not quite June. There could very well be more players joining the Season before a winner was declared. Unlike the debutantes who were expected to attend the whole of the Season or until an engagement was imminent, eligible young men came and went.
It was a boon to have all three possibilities in attendance tonight. In fact, the evening had been nearly perfect…save for Etta’s wig.
Tonight’s headpiece was new: a delightfully large powdered confection of rolled and stacked curls that fairly sparkled in the light, as it was shot with tiny crystals meant to engage that exact effect. The elaborate wigs and cosmetics, inspired by the ostentatious French, were beginning to fall out of fashion in London as political tension across the Channel increased, but Etta loved the excessive costuming for formal balls such as this one. As a Woman of a Certain Age, she could do as she pleased in regard to fashion, so long as it was well executed.
However, the pins that secured the wig to the tight linen head wrap covering her actual hair had been gouging her scalp all night. During a visit to the refreshment room half an hour ago, she’d pulled out the three worst offenders, thinking that they would not be missed amid the dozens of other pins holding the wig in place. She’d dropped the pins into a bowl on some side table somewhere and expected not to worry about it any longer. The wig was not sitting quite so steady on her head, however, making her wonder if perhaps she’d overreacted. What was a little scalp impalement compared to losing one’s hair in public?
A voice just behind Etta’s shoulder almost made her jump, which her wig could not afford her to do just now. A lifetime of practice kept her from reacting at all, thank goodness.
“Where is she?”
Etta turned her head to carefully look down at Elizabeth Pettengill, one of her closest friends despite the fact that Elizabeth took great pleasure in discomfiting Etta whenever she could manage it. Etta gave as well as she received, however.
“Oh, it’s you,” Etta said with exaggerated dryness as she faced forward again. “How nice of you to join us.”
“Isn’t it though?” Elizabeth said, rouge amplifying the rounding of her cheeks as she smiled. She never did herself up as elaborately as Etta did, but she always hit the mark. “Where is your charge?”
“Good to see you as well, Elizabeth,” Etta said dryly.
“Of course I’m glad to see you. Which one is she?” Elizabeth was wearing gold satin tonight, a bit more flamboyant than her usual choices but appropriate for her first elite event since her return to Town. All her friends and acquaintances would notice her, to be sure.
Etta pointed her fan toward Rachel gathered with some other young people as they waited for the next set of dancing to begin. “Far corner, near the south veranda. Light blue silk.”
Elizabeth lifted her quizzing glass—another eccentricity Women of a Certain Age could get away with—and pursed her rouged lips.
“Do you mean the blonde with the square neckline?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, that is my Rachel,” Etta said, choosing not to nod.
“She’s fat.”
Etta narrowed her eyes as she scowled at her friend, careful not to incline her head too sharply toward the shorter woman. “She is pleasingly plump.”
“Fat,” Elizabeth repeated, lowering her glass, which was secured to the bodice of her golden silk ball gown. “I certainly do not mean it as anything other than an objective observation, of course. Frankly, we need more of us stout women to offset the balance of you gangly things.” She turned her glass on Etta. “Case in point, you look like a powdered stalk of asparagus.”
Etta bit back a laugh. When alone, she and Elizabeth could roast one another and laugh until their stomachs hurt, but in a forum such as this, Etta needed to maintain her dignity.
“If I am asparagus, you, my dear, are a golden pumpkin,” Etta said once she could trust herself to speak.
Elizabeth let out a single snort of laughter, and they both looked over the crowd once more.
Do I really look like asparagus?Etta wondered, smoothing the bodice of her gown—green muslin with a silver underdress to match the sparkle in her wig. She wore her widest hoops tonight and her tightest corset, which meant she had to take small breaths and had only dared eat two bites of dinner. Fashion was not without its sacrifice.
