Beatrice on a mission was a formidable creature.
‘No? What?’ Claire was afraid to ask.
‘No, as in we shall not stand for it. I may be ruined, but there is no reason the rest of you have to settle for futures not of your choosing.’
Claire opened her mouth to protest, but Beatrice overrode her dissent with quick words and plans. ‘We’ve been overlooked and forgotten. It’s not entirely our fault. But we have had some hand in the blame. We’ve let the ton treat us as if we accept we’re destined for nothing better than country marriages to dried-up vicars and poor third sons of baronets.’
‘It’s just how it is. What can we do about it?’ Evie ventured hesitantly.
‘We can use our special talents for our own betterment instead of detriment.’ Something stirred inside Claire. She liked that—betterment not detriment. It sounded like something the workers at Peterloo would have chanted. Beatrice began to pace and Claire could feel herself getting caught up in Beatrice’s fervour. ‘It’s so obvious. Why haven’t we seen it before? We have to go after what we want. It’s a simple principle of nature. A system dies when it has no new stimuli.’ Beatrice rounded on the group, gesturing to Evie. ‘We’ll need your skill with the needle to create eye-catching fashions for those who need to stand out. Claire, you can coach us on French phrases to drop into conversation since it’s coming back into vogue. May, you can help us research our quarry: where they’ll be, when they’ll be there, what they like. You can start with Lashley.’
Claire’s passion for Beatrice’s crusade came to a crashing halt. Why Lashley? Oh. Beatrice was starting straight at her, delivering her directive. ‘Time is of the essence. You shall be first.’
‘Me?’ Claire choked on her cider.
Beatrice offered her a consoling smile, but she would not relent.
‘Yes, you,’ Beatrice said sternly. ‘And it’s certainly time you forgot about that idiot Sheriden. You’ve let his opinion of you hold you back for far too long. And it’s time you forgot about Cecilia’s dress prank. I don’t think Lashley even noticed. It was years ago.’
Claire groaned. ‘That just proves my point. He didn’t even notice my most embarrassing moment.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Beatrice argued. ‘It’s time we all forget. We’ve been complacent too long. No more. It has taken this pregnancy for me to realise I don’t have to settle for the life society dictated for me. I don’t want my friends to endure a similar tragedy in order to realise it, too. Each of us can have the lives we want, but only if we stand up for them and for each other.’
She fixed Claire with her best stare. Claire felt something warm and forgotten start to come to life deep inside her, a flicker perhaps of who she was, who she was meant to be instead of whom she had become.
‘It starts with you, Claire. We are not going to let Cecilia Northam take Lashley, not without a fight, by God. She’s had her way far too long and for no good reason.’ Beatrice lifted her cup of cider in proclamation. ‘I hereby officially declare this the “Left-Behind Girls Club”, where, through acts of vigorous self-improvement, social courage and the protection of one another, we will change our circumstances by living life on our terms, not society’s. Because, ladies, nothing will change until we do.’
They had to be the ones to change. Beatrice’s words still echoed three nights later. They had to stop accepting and start fighting for the life they wanted. Claire did not take issue with the concept in theory. Beatrice’s speech had been rousing, inspiring even in a Henry the Fifth, ‘once more into the breach’ sort of way. But did she have to be first?
Claire pressed nervous hands against the flat of her stomach, repeatedly smoothing the silky material of her Evie-enhanced gown as she mounted the steps of the Worth town house behind her parents for dinner. Her friends should have started with someone they could succeed with. There was nothing like attempting the impossible to doom morale. She knew. She’d attempted it once. That’s what this mission was: the impossible, an experiment doomed to failure. Jonathon hadn’t noticed her for three years. Why would he suddenly notice her now? Why would anyone? She’d spent three years trying not to be noticed, trying to avoid reminding people she was the girl who had worn a gown identical to Cecilia Northam’s at the largest ball of the Season the year she’d come out.
Inside the high-ceilinged hall of the Worth town house, with its blue-veined marble floor and white-arched niches filled with expensive statuary, Claire’s nerves hit a ceiling of their own. Changing one’s circumstances was all well and good in the hypothetical, but in practice it was far different, far more real. It was some comfort to know that May would be there with her tonight, playing hostess with her mother, but the comfort was outweighed by the knowledge that Jonathon Lashley and his parents would be in attendance, along with Cecilia Northam’s family.
There would be others present, too, all of whom most likely outranked the Weltons in terms of social cachet. Her father was an unobtrusive man, a quiet viscount possessed of an old title, the sort of guest who could always be counted on to fill seats. As such, he and her mother were invited everywhere. It was a comfortable but not demanding popularity. Tonight was a case in point. The Worths liked to seat an even twenty for supper when they entertained, hence the need for the Weltons.
The butler led them into the drawing room and May was immediately at her side, slipping an arm through hers. Claire felt some of her nerves ease. May, like Beatrice, had been there when she’d refused her one and only offer of marriage and her family had been livid with her. May had been there when Cecilia had pulled her awful prank. Without May, Claire would have given up society years ago and retreated firmly to the country with her books. She’d probably know six languages by now instead of four.
‘You look beautiful,’ May whispered, looking lovely herself in a dress of midnight-blue silk.
‘Do you think so?’ Claire tugged self-consciously at the newly lowered bodice of her gown. Evie had recut the old conservative square one into a more modern style that was off the shoulder and considerably more revealing, before horizontally ruching the fabric to make the expanse of bosom now on display appear fuller.
May slapped her hand. ‘Stop fussing with it. The cut is fine, more than fine. Evie has outdone herself.’ The dress was hugely improved. Claire had hardly recognised it when Evie finished. It was just that Claire wasn’t used to it. It wasn’t the sort of dress a girl like her wore—a girl with no prospects, a girl who blended into the wallpaper. This was a dress that got a girl noticed. She’d not been oblivious to the second glances cast her way. The realisation made her fidgety. She wasn’t used to being looked at, only looked over, or was that overlooked?
Of course, being noticed was part of the plan: no more matching the curtains, no more blending in. Being different meant looking different and there’d been no time in the last two days for an entirely new gown to be made. The girls had crowded into Claire’s room and meticulously gone through her wardrobe until every gown had been scrutinised and discarded. Claire had not realised how plain her wardrobe was until it had needed to pass their inspection and failed.
The girls had decided she should wear blue, ‘Ethereal’, Evie had called it. Evie had taken notes on her little pad and had worked wonders with the gown. After the bodice had been remade, Evie had added wide chocolate-brown grosgrain ribbon at the hem and thinner silk ribbon of the same colour along the bodice and the tiny puffed sleeves: a striking effect against the sky-blue that brought out
