The Incomparable Countess

‘If they are prepared to pay, then I am sure we can handle any problems of behaviour. After all, beggars cannot be choosers.’

‘My lady!’ Lady Graham, another member of the committee, cried in horror. ‘We are not beggars. Never let it be said that we are begging.’

Frances had smiled. ‘No, but we are going to ask an exorbitant amount for a ticket, are we not? They deserve Corringham House for that.’

It was some time since Frances had entertained on such a lavish scale; usually she gave small intimate suppers at which conversation, listening to music and playing a few hands of whist were the main ways of passing time. There had not been a ball at the house since Augusta’s come-out five years before and the ballroom had not been used since. She thought she would enjoy the challenge.

And so, on a warm Saturday evening in May, when London was just beginning to fill up for the Season, Corringham House was ablaze with light. Extra servants had been busy all day, polishing the ballroom floor; others were scurrying about carrying chairs, tables, plates and glasses to wherever they were needed. The dining room had been laid out with one long table covered with a pristine damask cloth, ready for the food to be set upon it, and dozens of smaller tables were arranged round the room for the guests to eat supper in small intimate groups. In the over-heated kitchen an army of specially contracted caterers were frantically preparing food, getting in each other’s way and cursing volubly. By early evening, banks of fresh flowers were in place and the musicians had arrived.

Frances made one last tour of the rooms, including one on the first floor for those who did not care to dance and preferred cards, and two others set aside for gentlemen and ladies to leave their hats and cloaks and refresh themselves. There was an attendant in each. Satisfied that all was in readiness, she went up to her bedroom on the second floor, where Rose was waiting to help her dress. She felt hot and sticky and glad to soak in the bath which had been put on the floor of her dressing room and filled with warm, perfumed water.

Until then she had been too busy to reflect on the possible success or otherwise of the enterprise. What would her aristocratic friends think of being asked to pay for the privilege of being her guests? And would they come, knowing that others, just as rich but less socially acceptable, might also pay and they would be obliged to mix with them? It was too late to worry about that now. She stood up and stepped out of the bath. Rose wrapped a towel round her and began rubbing her dry.

When the first carriage rolled up the drive and deposited its occupants on the doorstep, she was ready to greet them. She had chosen to wear an open gown in amber crepe over a silk slip in pale lemon. It had a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves. The amber crepe and the sleeves were sewn with tiny seed pearls and the bodice was caught under the bosom with tiny yellow flowers, the eye of each one studded with a pearl. Her hair was arranged à la Grecque and studded with more pearls. Apart from her rings, she wore no other jewellery.

After the ladies of the committee, who had all arrived promptly, the first guests to arrive were Augusta and her husband, Sir Richard Harnham. Frances, always pleased to see her stepdaughter, kissed her fondly. ‘I am so glad you are here. I have been thinking it will be a very poor do and no one will come.’

‘Fustian!’ Richard said, smiling at her and raising her hand to his lips. ‘Nothing you do is a poor do. It will be a great squeeze, you see if I am not right.’

‘I do hope so.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Even if no one comes, they have already paid for their tickets. We have banked the money and plans have already been made to spend it.’

‘Oh, Mama, please stop worrying,’ Augusta said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

Considering there was only twelve years between them, Frances found it amusing that Augusta, now that she was grown up and married and had children of her own, still insisted on calling her Mama, but it did not displease her; she was very fond of Augusta.

Her stepson, James, was the next to arrive, dressed in a black evening coat, skintight pantaloons and shirt points high enough to scratch his cheeks. His muslin cravat had been tied to an intricacy that would have done credit to Beau Brummell. He had a young lady on his arm whom Frances had never seen before, but whom she immediately knew to be a very expensive chère amie indeed. She was dressed in a cream satin high-waisted gown embroidered all over with gold and silver thread. Her hair had obviously been dressed by someone skilled in the art and she wore a diamond necklace, diamond ear drops and several gold bracelets.

‘May I present Miss Annabelle Franks, ma’am,’ James said, drawing her forward.

‘My lady,’ she said, dropping into a curtsy. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

‘You are welcome, Miss Franks.’ Then, to her stepson, ‘James, Augusta is arrived, do go and speak to her.’

She watched them go with some trepidation. James had succeeded to his father’s title at the age of seventeen and now, at twenty-four, was something of a scapegrace. Frances had had many a run-in with him over the coils he landed himself in, but for all that she loved him dearly. When not living at the Corringham estate in Essex, he stayed in bachelor chambers in Albany, rather than at Corringham House. She suspected it was because he did not want her to know everything he was up to.

He and the young lady had hardly passed into the ballroom when Sir Percival arrived. He looked like a peacock in his green velvet knee breeches, silk stockings and mauve satin coat. There was a froth of lace at his throat and more spilling over his wrists. He took her hand and bent to kiss it, smiling at her. ‘Fanny, you look beautiful tonight.’

She laughed. ‘Well, thank you, Percy. And I must say, you look magnificent.’

He preened himself in his old-fashioned clothes, unaware of the slight irony in her tone. ‘I shall expect at least one dance.’

‘You may have it, if I have time to dance at all. I might be too occupied.’

‘Gammon! You must make time. I did not pay a ransom for a ticket to be deprived of the pleasure of dancing with you, which was the only reason I came.’

‘Not to help the orphans?’ she teased.

‘I could have made a donation without coming.’

‘I hope not too many of our guests share your sentiments or we shall have an empty ballroom.’

‘No, for half London is agog to see the inside of a house they know only by repute, and observe the haut monde at play. They will come.’

And they did. Almost everyone who had purchased a ticket arrived in their finery and some even came without tickets, prepared to pay at the door. Richard had forecast a squeeze and he was certainly right. By nine o’clock the ballroom was crowded and noisy with music, talk and laughter, even if the different social echelons did remain in little groups, each observing the other. Frances decided that no one else should be admitted and left her post to join the throng and encourage everyone to mingle. She was immediately besieged by well-wishers and it was some time before she was free to dance herself; Percy came to claim her.

‘I told you so, did I not?’ he said as they took the first steps of a cotillion. ‘You cannot say this is not a huge success and the Season hardly begun.’

‘Yes, it was a good decision to have it early, before everyone was engaged in their own round of social events. There are to be several balls in the next three months and no doubt everyone will be exhausted.’

‘Then will you please stop worrying and enjoy this dance, you are as stiff as a ramrod.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled and allowed the music to take over and it wasn’t until the end of the dance, when Percy raised her from a deep curtsy, that she saw the Duke of Loscoe, standing in the open doorway, surveying the crowd. Her earnest hope that he would be otherwise engaged on the night had gone unanswered.

He was immaculately clad in black. His superfine coat looked as though he had been poured into it, so closely did it fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His trousers, strapped beneath his dancing shoes, emphasised his muscular thighs and long legs and proved that, for a man who had lived in the country for years, he was very much abreast of fashion. A rose-coloured waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread, and a fantastically tied cravat of the finest silk completed a look which had all the young ladies sighing, notwithstanding he was known to be forty years old.

‘Complete to a shade,’ Percy remarked drily.

Frances excused herself and went, as a good hostess, to greet the Duke and make him welcome. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry I left my post and was not waiting to greet you. I thought everyone who was coming had arrived.’

He smiled down at her. ‘Is that a rebuke for my tardiness, my lady? If so, I beg forgiveness. My business kept me longer than I intended.’

‘Goodness no, you are not late, but punctual as ever. It is I who am at fault for assuming everyone was here and beginning the proceedings too early.’ That, she thought, would tell him that she had not been looking out for him and had not even noticed his non-arrival.

‘Then you must make amends by dancing with me.’

There was no help for it and it was better to have it over and done with before her courage left her. She laid her fingers upon the hand he held out to her and allowed him to lead her into the dance just beginning.

Time stood still—more than that, it seemed to go backwards as they did the steps of a stately minuet, just as they had done in that Season seventeen years before. She felt a young girl again, but though the years had passed, inside she had not changed. The same things still excited and thrilled her, the same things made her sad; it was only on the outside she was older and she hoped wiser, able to meet both joy and calamity with serenity.

‘Over all the years, this is what I remember most about you,’ he murmured. ‘The graceful way you move when you dance.’

‘Really, my lord?’ she said, deciding to accept the compliment as a tease and answer in like manner. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, it is far from all, but I doubt you want to hear what other things I remember.’

She should bring the conversation to an end, she knew that, but the seventeen-year-old inside her loved compliments and it was the seventeen-year-old inside her who was holding sway at that moment. She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are they so dreadful, these other things, that I should be ashamed of them?’

‘Not dreadful at all, but delightful. The way you laugh, which is more like a husky chuckle. And the way your hair curls in your neck so lovingly and the way your eyes light up when you are animated. And your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that…’

She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. ‘Loscoe, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.’

‘Of course,’ he said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And you are not indifferent, are you?’

She wished he had not used that word. The years rolled on and the seventeen-year-old faded to be replaced by the mature woman, the cool Society hostess. ‘Every woman likes compliments, but she would be a ninny to take them seriously, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.’

‘You think I am skilled? My goodness, that must mean your swains are singularly inept for I have been buried in the country for years and am sadly out of practice.’

‘Then I should hate to be one of this Season’s innocents, if you are going to practise on them. Heartbreak does not come easy when you are seventeen.’