a marriage as she could achieve. The two girls had parted with many tears and protestations of undying loyalty. They would keep in touch. But they had not. And so of necessity the ladies had grown apart.
As the two ladies set to reminisce, Thea let her thoughts wonder, listening with only half an ear to the less than exciting doings of her parent at the Academy in Bath. What could they find to talk about that was of interest after all these years? It all sounded desperately dull and hedged about with restriction and parental expectations. She hid a yawn with considerable expertise. It reminded her of the worst of formal diplomatic receptions where nothing happened to relieve the tedium and no one had anything of moment to say after the introductions had been made. Thea fervently wished that she had found another occupation for the afternoon—until a stray comment from Lady Beatrice caught her attention.
‘You had a sister, I remember. A year or so older, at school with us. Mary, I think.’
Thea’s eyes snapped to her mother’s face.
‘Yes. You have a good memory.’
I did not know that my mother had a sister! Why did I not know? Lady Drusilla’s reply was smooth enough, and yet Thea sensed the slightest of hesitations, a hint of reserve in her voice. She turned her attention fully.
‘Does she live in London?’ Lady Beatrice went on to enquire.
‘No. Mary lived her whole life in the country. And is now dead. Some years ago.’
‘I am sorry. Did she perhaps have family?’
‘Yes. Two … two children. But we had not kept in touch. There was … an estrangement. Her marriage was not an easy one. I was not made welcome in her house.’
‘You need not tell me about difficult marriages …’
The conversation moved on, leaving Thea to wonder about this branch of the family of which she was completely unaware.
The visit drew to a natural close when the ladies ran out of events and people to recall, criticise and chuckle over.
‘As you know, we do not expect to remain long in London.’ Lady Drusilla drew on her gloves in preparation to making her departure. ‘But it is my wish to see my daughter married. You were kind enough to offer to ease our entrée into London society. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently, Beatrice.’
‘It will be my pleasure. At the end of the week I have an invitation to Lady Aston’s drum. All the world and his wife will be there, I expect. It has been my intention to get up a small party—just family and close friends, you understand. I am expecting my nephew Nicholas to arrive here from the country any day—that is, if his recent correspondence rings true. But he is a difficult boy to pin down, with a mind of his own, and getting him to put in an appearance in town is more aggravating than you could possibly believe …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and huffed in indulgent irritation at the vagaries of her wiful relative. ‘But that aside—you, my dear Drusilla, must come as my guest. It will be the perfect opportunity for you. And for Theodora to make some acquaintances.’
‘We shall be delighted.’ Lady Drusilla rose to her feet. ‘It is my intention to entertain from Upper Brook Street, but we are not yet fully settled, as you might imagine.’
‘Perhaps I might suggest—’ Lady Beatrice cast another assessing glance towards Thea, who stood demurely beside her mother as if the visit had provided her with nothing but delight ‘—the matter of suitable dresses for dear Theodora. Not that she does not look charming. But …’
They both eyed the lady in question as if she were a strange object from antiquity.
‘I thought she looked particularly fetching this afternoon.’ Lady Drusilla stood back to take in the overall impression created by a high-waisted walking dress with long tight sleeves and a ruched hem in an eye-catching emerald and cream stripe.
‘Yes. There is no question of that …’ Beatrice was quick to soothe. ‘But not quite in the way of a débutante.’
Lady Drusilla gave a little sigh. ‘I have to admit that my daughter is not perhaps quite in the way of the usual débutante! I fear that it is my fault.’
‘How old are you, my dear?’ Lady Beatrice asked.
‘I am twenty-one, Lady Beatrice.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Thea could not prevent herself from adding, ‘I fear that I have no control over that unfortunate situation.’
‘Mmm.’ The lorgnette came into play again. Lady Beatrice came to a rapid and sensible decision. ‘Well. We will not allow it to be a problem. Perhaps we should say that Theodora made her curtsy to the Polite World in Constantinople. I am sure there were any number of official functions there which she attended.’
‘Indeed she did. She helped me entertain on numerous occasions. She is perfectly versed in how to go on in such circles, so I have no fears on that account.’
Thea set her teeth against being talked over and around in such a fashion but, more amused than discomfited, allowed the ladies to continue their plans.
‘She will need some suitable dresses. With a less—shall we say, exotic flavour. I am not sure what it is, but … Such a vibrant shade with such intricate decoration is not quite suitable for a young girl …’
‘Very well. I bow to your judgement. Perhaps tomorrow morning we should visit the modistes in Bond Street. If you could recommend …?’
‘I shall do more than recommend, dear Drusilla. I shall be delighted to accompany you …’
And so it was all settled. Theodora would make her curtsey at Lady Aston’s drum, tastefully dressed, as far a possible, à la jeune fille.
The ladies parted in complete accord and satisfaction.
‘Why did I not know of your sister? That I have cousins?’ The two Wooton-Devereux ladies strolled home along Park Lane, parasols angled to shield their skin from the rays of the sun.
‘The subject never came up.’ Thea detected the slightest of shrugs as her mother replied. Nor was she fooled by the bland expression on her face.
‘Mama!’
‘We—Mary and I—were estranged,’ Lady Drusilla explained further. ‘I found it … painful. As I told Beatrice, we had had no contact for many years.’
‘But you knew that she had died.’
‘Yes. It was reported in the Morning Post. When we were in Paris.’
‘I just thought you would have mentioned it—the fact that there were members of the family whom I had never met.’
‘I suppose that I did not see any reason to do so. I had no intention of picking up the connection with that side of the family. There was nothing more sinister than that, I do assure you, Thea. Such estrangements happen in families. You have only to look at your father’s cousin. He has not spoken to his own son for the best part of a decade.’
‘I see.’
‘Mary and I simply did not get on.’
Thea
