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 the amber colour of her eyes.
Truth be told, Claire did feel different in the dress, but it would take some getting used to. Maybe she felt too different. A dress could change her on the outside, but it couldn’t change her on the inside, could it? She scanned the room bravely, her eyes finding Jonathon; dark haired and tall, at the wide fireplace mantel that dominated the far wall. He was smiling, looking entirely at ease as he conversed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without that smile and that air of confidence he carried everywhere with him, trademarks of who he was; a man with the world at his fingertips.
It was no wonder he was picked for an important diplomatic post. He was witty, charming, informed and there wasn’t a talent he didn’t possess; he could sing at musical evenings, fence, box, ride and shoot. He was perfect, the Regency’s incarnation of Da Vinci’s Renaissance man.
He stood with his father and Lord Belvoir, Cecilia’s father. Cecilia Northam was at his side dressed in an exquisite rose silk, her hand on his arm, possessive and proud as if he already belonged to her. Cecilia’s eyes caught hers, her steely-silver gaze perusing Claire’s gown.
Claire could hear the old, hurtful words. ‘I wear it better. Far better. You should have known you could not wear my signature colour.’ Claire hadn’t worn pink since.
This gown was not that gown, she reasoned with herself. In no way did Evie’s blue creation resemble the rose silk Cecilia wore tonight. But Claire still felt her confidence falter. ‘I feel as if I’ve been thrown to the lions,’ she murmured to May.
‘Then be Daniel,’ May whispered. ‘Keep your head up and look them all in the eye. Let everyone know this Season you mean business, beginning tonight.’
Claire did her best as they made the rounds of the room, stopping to talk with the little clusters of guests, May leaning over to announce sotto voce, ‘Cecilia is not the only one who’s noticed. Even Lashley’s been looking a time or two. Discreetly, of course.’
Of course. It was how Jonathon did everything. Claire hazarded another look in Jonathon’s direction, unable to suppress a little trill of delight at May’s
